


far longer than forever (you're my best friend)

by Quilly



Series: to go romancing [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Animal Transformation, Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Human AU, Inspired by Swan Princess (1994), Magic, Minor Character Death, Multi, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Separation Anxiety, Swan Princess AU, childhood enemies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Prince Aziraphale and Princess Crowley have been betrothed since infancy, and are forced to spend every summer together in hopes that they fall in love. Too bad for their guardians, because they are both absolutely certain that's never going to happen. They are going to grow up, go their separate ways, and manage ruling their kingdoms on their own, thanks.Fate has other plans. And so does a sorcerer with a grudge.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: to go romancing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597387
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello, welcome to the Swan Princess AU based on the 1994 movie, one of my absolute favorite pieces of silly media! This will be updating daily until it's done, so buckle in, friends!
> 
> Some programming notes:
> 
> \- Additional chapter-specific warnings will be posted as needed, so keep an eye on the author notes; if something should be tagged properly in the tag block, let me know.
> 
> \- Crowley is going to have swapping pronouns throughout the "This Is My Idea"/growing up sequence in the first three chapters, but he/him for the bulk of the story afterwards. He is, however, always a Princess.
> 
> \- Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon will be making an appearance, but not enough of one to warrant tagging them. 
> 
> \- Tagged for Major Character Death to be safe, but minor character death is the more appropriate label; however, it is very sad (or I hope it is).
> 
> \- Title comes from the Swan Princess song "Far Longer Than Forever", and Queen's "You're My Best Friend", which felt like an appropriate mashup for this chaos.
> 
> On with the show, folks, hope you like it!

Once upon a time, there lived a king named Shadwell, who did alright for himself as far as kingdoms went, but he had no heir to inherit his throne. Then one day, a child was born, a tiny squalling red-haired infant who so enchanted Shadwell that the aging king named it his successor and set in fashion the idea of adopting wards. He held a grand feast for the child, in attendance of which was the widow Madam Tracy, of a similar situation and in possession of a ward herself, a young pale-curled child about the infant’s age. The babies seemed transfixed by each other, which gave Madam Tracy a wonderful idea: in hopes of joining their kingdoms, which would be a terribly profitable venture in her mind, Shadwell and his heir should come every summer to her home and the children should be allowed to spend time together, in the hopes of them forming an attachment and marrying of their own accord.

“Aren’t they sweet, Mr. S?” Madam Tracy cooed as one of Shadwell’s infant’s hands happened to catch her own infant’s hand and they locked together instinctively, tiny chubby fingers grasping what was in reach. “And imagine what a grand wedding we could throw them if it works!”

Shadwell didn’t know about love; he personally thought the only connection the children had was one of shared lack of object permanence and thus forgetting the other existed until they happened to realize what was in their immediate line of sight again, but in his curmudgeonly old heart he thought the idea of the wee bairn being well-cared for after he inevitably died sounded nice.

Unbeknownst to all was a second plot at work, that of the sorcerer Beelzebub. Babies and the betrothing thereof were of little consequence to them. Beelzebub was already planning on taking Shadwell’s kingdom by force, and had a very efficient twelve-step program in mind to get the kingdom whipped into shape once the coup was complete, but unfortunately for them and their diagrams, the plot was discovered and Beelzebub’s powers were plunged into darkness and ruin. There was a general call for Beelzebub’s death, but Shadwell, still preoccupied with thoughts of tiny chubby baby legs in need of cooing over waiting at home, decided banishment was good enough.

“You’re going to run thiszz kingdom into the ground,” Beelzebub said, less a threat and more of a statement of fact in their own mind. “And when you do, I’ll be there to take everything you ever dared to care about. Everything you own, everything you love—it’ll all be mine.”

That said, Beelzebub vanished into the thick forest that separated Shadwell’s kingdom from Tracy’s and was forgotten about in short order, for all hopes were turning towards that not-too-distant summer when the principle players in the kingdoms’ very own local fairy tale would meet.

.

Madam Regent Tracy held her sniffling ward Aziraphale by the hand as they waited on the castle steps to receive their new guests.

“But, Mother,” Aziraphale whimpered, “please may I go back to my books?”

“I know you’re nervous, darling, but this is a big opportunity to make a new friend,” Madam Tracy said gently, soothing her thumb over Aziraphale’s tiny dimpled hand. “Oh, look, do you see their horses? They’re coming!”

Aziraphale looked where Madam Tracy was pointing, and soon enough the horses of King Shadwell and the guard captain came trotting into view. Aziraphale was at least entertained by the horses, even if he was frightened of them coming too close. King Shadwell was looking well, and riding in front of him in the saddle was a small red-haired child about the same age as Aziraphale, who looked rather green even from a distance.

“There we go, Crowley,” Shadwell said as he reined in the horse, and for a moment Madam Tracy thought he’d named the horse the same as the child, but he patted the young heir on the head as he slid off the horse, then lifted the child down after him. “Nice to see ye, jezebel,” Shadwell said conversationally, and Madam Tracy giggled despite herself. “That the young master, then?”

“Welcome to our fair kingdom, Mr. S,” Madam Tracy winked, spreading her skirts in a more formal curtsy than need be for such a dear friend, but appearances in front of the children were important. “Say hello, Aziraphale, these are our new friends, King Shadwell and little Prince Anthony.”

“M’ not little,” the child said stoutly from where they were hiding behind Shadwell’s legs. “And ‘m not Anthony, ’m Crowley!”

“My apologies, Prince Crowley,” Madam Tracy corrected herself.

“Princess,” Crowley corrected again.

“Princess Crowley,” Madam Tracy said, and pushed Aziraphale forward. “Go on, darling, say hello to your new friend.”

Aziraphale took a few halting steps forward, clearly intimidated by Shadwell’s height, and Shadwell helped by scooting Crowley out from behind him and giving them a little shove. The children eyed each other warily, and finally Crowley made a clumsy attempt at a bow, which Aziraphale returned.

“Pleased to meet you, Princess,” Aziraphale said, and turned and ran back to Madam Tracy as Crowley went to return the sentiment. Madam Tracy frowned at him and pointed him back the other way, and Princess Crowley’s face scrunched as they tapped their foot and waited for Aziraphale to come back.

“Pleased to meet you too, Prince,” Crowley said, and after an awkward moment, Aziraphale snatched up Crowley’s hand, quickly pressed a kiss on the back of it, and then ran towards Madam Tracy—in fact, blowing past her entirely and running into the castle.

“Aziraphale!” Madam Tracy cried, and before she followed, she made an apologetic curtsy. “Ever so sorry, loves, he’s not the best with strangers—Aziraphale, get back here _this instant—_ ”

Had Madam Tracy remained, she would have seen the poor attempt to avoid laughing by Shadwell and the thunderous expression on Princess Crowley’s little face as they tugged on their long copper braids.

Once disastrous introductions were finally done with, Aziraphale sequestered himself in the library, which had always been a safe haven before, and snuggled in his chair with a table full of books. He would have been more than happy to have been undisturbed until he was a hundred years old, but—

“Hey.” A small hand nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he sighed loudly. “Hey. Zir’phale.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale said, turning to look at his new nuisance. Big yellow eyes blinked up at him under unruly red curls escaping their braids and over a determined little pout, and if Aziraphale were an adult this would have been adorable, but he wasn’t an adult, so there.

“How come your name’s Zir’phale?” Crowley lisped.

“I don’t know, it’s just my name.” Aziraphale thought some more. “It’s after an angel, I think.”

“A angel!” the Princess’ eyes lit up. “Angel’s easier to say. I’ll call you angel!”

“But my name’s not angel,” Aziraphale protested.

“’s just a nickname,” Crowley informed him.

“Well, it’s not my name,” Aziraphale scowled, and returned to his book. There was a loud, impatient sigh from over his shoulder, and then both small hands shook his arm.

“Come _on_ , angel, let’s go exploring!”

“No!” Aziraphale shouted, shaking Princess Crowley off so hard they fell back. They squeaked as their backside hit the floor, and they looked up at him with furious yellow eyes filling fast with tears and a trembling lip. Aziraphale thought he should help them up and say sorry, but before he could, Princess Crowley stood, dashed their fist over their eyes, and stomped away.

Aziraphale felt bad about this, but he more or less forgot about it as he got back to his books—that is, until a large, wet frog jumped into the middle of his pages. Aziraphale shrieked, and then hollered further when a large, wet handful of mud slapped against the side of his face.

“Ha!” Princess Crowley shouted, sticking out their tongue at him. Aziraphale was faced with no recourse but to scrape the mud off his face, fight back tears, and throw it back at them.

It was hard to say who won that particular fight, since they were both covered in mud by the end of it and the frog had disappeared somewhere, but as summer continued and Crowley continued to be constantly underfoot and in Aziraphale’s way, one thing was certain for both of them: this arrangement was no fun at all, and they were certain whoever had thought it up was an idiot.

Still, it was just the first meeting. Madam Tracy and King Shadwell parted with a promise of next year and hoped for a better outcome once both children had done some growing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning! Chapter notes:  
> \- she/her for Crowley in the first half and they/them in the second (also they/them for Uriel in the second half, which may cause some confusion, but hopefully it's clear who's who)  
> \- appearance of the Archangels, and some fat-shaming in the second half
> 
> One more chapter in the "This Is My Idea" sequence, and then we're moving on to the main story!

“Crowley, if we don’t leave now, we’ll be late, bairn,” Shadwell shouted up at the balcony where his precocious eight-year-old ward was kicking her heels against the railing.

“I haven’t packed,” Crowley shouted back.

“The servants packed for ye,” Shadwell countered.

“I—I haven’t washed my hair!” Crowley grabbed her braids and tugged on them to illustrate her point. “And I get motion sick in the carriage, and it’s already hot, and—”

Shadwell sighed deeply, wondering if Madam Tracy was having as much of a problem as he was getting her heir to behave himself.

She was, as it happened. Aziraphale had somehow painted a mop head red and affixed it to his training dummy, and was now dutifully going through his sword exercises while maintaining a grimace.

“Darling, that’s hardly respectful,” Madam Tracy frowned, and winced when Aziraphale made a grand sweep that beheaded the dummy entirely.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale said airily, “but if you make me kiss their hand again, I shall be sick.”

“It’s polite and traditional and you will do no such thing,” Madam Tracy scolded, but refrained from doing so again when the time presented itself for Aziraphale to kiss Crowley’s hand in greeting and Crowley pulled her hand away before Aziraphale could make contact. Madam Tracy looked at Shadwell, who looked back at her, and shrugged.

Once Crowley was settled in the castle again, she went looking for Aziraphale, not because she wanted to, but because there was nothing else to do and Aziraphale, for all his stuck-uppity ways, was at least entertaining. She checked the library first, and found a large, neatly-written sign that said “no princesses allowed” hanging on the doors.

Crowley read it several times to make sure she understood, then puffed up. She squared her shoulders and marched into the library, throwing the doors open so hard they banged off the walls. She couldn’t tell if Aziraphale jumped because the chairs were too high to see over, but he was already glaring at her by the time she made her way to his customary table.

“That’s not fair,” Crowley said, pointing at the door. “You can’t ban me from an entire room of the castle.”

“Can, too, it’s my castle,” Aziraphale retorted.

“You’re a stupidhead,” Crowley declared, then went into the shelves to find something to read. Or, rather, something to look at; Crowley preferred the pictures to the words. She piled up a stack of books about things like flowers and stars, and brought them back to the table where Aziraphale was sitting. He stared at her as she set up her own pile and pulled a chair up to the other side of the table, but hurriedly looked back down at his own books when she glared at him.

Crowley looked through the books as slowly as she could, but it had still only been an hour by the time she finished, and Aziraphale looked completely absorbed. She swung her legs from where they dangled over the edge of the chair and accidentally kicked the table. Aziraphale shot her another frown, which Crowley returned with a stuck-out tongue.

“I’m bored,” Crowley announced. Aziraphale didn’t react. Crowley kicked the table on purpose this time. “Hey. Angel.”

“Not my name,” Aziraphale replied, more on autopilot than anything, and similarly, Crowley ignored him.

“Angel. Let’s see if we can get somebody to build us a treehouse.”

“A treehouse?” Aziraphale frowned, looking up from his book. “Whyever would you want a house in a tree?”

“S’like a secret hideaway,” Crowley explained. “We could go up there and hide from the grownups. We could steal cake from the kitchen and eat it there and nobody would ever catch us.”

A funny light Crowley had never seen before entered Aziraphale’s eyes, a hungry light, but shuttered itself almost immediately. “No, I—that’s preposterous and would be wrong—”

“Could bring books up there, too,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s mouth closed. “Books ‘n blankets ‘n cake.”

Aziraphale seemed to struggle with himself, and Crowley held her breath.

“I think…I think I know somebody who could help,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley cheered.

Aziraphale and Crowley enlisted the help of several household staff members to get their treehouse built, which took all of a week, with persistent badgering and generous donations from the royal carpenter. It rained the day after it was finished, but Crowley didn’t mind, taking the time to squirrel away several of Aziraphale’s favorite books and a whole tray of cakes up in the treehouse between showers. When her preparations were complete and the weather was fine, she marched into the library, grabbed Aziraphale by the sleeve, and dragged him outside.

“That’s a tall ladder,” Aziraphale fretted, looking up into the treehouse.

“It’ll be fine,” Crowley assured him, and nudged him up the ladder.

When Madam Tracy came to fetch them for supper, she found them giggling in the treehouse, full of cake and arguing about gorilla nests and whether or not birds could operate ships.

It was a fine summer, all told. Even if it did happen to end with Crowley getting a face-full of mud flung from an unknown point of origin as she was boarding the carriage, Aziraphale looking the picture of innocence as he kicked a filthy slingshot into the nearby bushes. Crowley scowled at him, and Aziraphale smiled and twiddled his fingers at her, and Madam Tracy and King Shadwell locked eyes and sighed and shrugged. Children. Capricious little monsters.

.

Princess Crowley was not the only visitor to Madam Tracy’s court that summer.

At eleven, Crowley and Aziraphale were resigned to the farce they were forced to live out every summer, and weathered the traditional greeting and hand-kissing with something resembling grace. Crowley thought Aziraphale looked off, but they were a bit busy rubbing off any residue from off the back of their hand to comment further on it. The grownups mentioned something about more children about, cousins to Aziraphale, which piqued Crowley’s interest. Six summers now and the only company they’d ever had was Aziraphale; more children could only mean more fun.

Crowley bounced through dinner, looking around the table at their potential new friends. There were four of them, a little older than themself and Aziraphale, and had very pretty table manners. Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon all held their soup spoons like the grownups did, and Crowley was working up to the idea that Gabriel was perhaps dreamy when he flicked his striking violet eyes towards Aziraphale, two chairs down, and his lip curled into a sneer, unseen by Madam Tracy at the far end of the table deep in conversation with King Shadwell.

“Slow down, Aziraphale, wouldn’t want to swell up too much,” Gabriel said in a low voice. Crowley frowned, and frowned further when Aziraphale flinched and put down his soup spoon. Aziraphale was looking a little rounder, but Crowley firmly blamed the puffy coat he insisted on wearing more than the shape beneath. And even if Aziraphale was round, who cared? Lots of people were round. Sandalphon himself was round. But the downcast look in Aziraphale’s eye prodded something within Crowley and crystallized. No, Gabriel was not dreamy, they decided. Gabriel was a prick, and if it was the last thing Crowley ever did, they would make Gabriel pay for picking on Aziraphale when that was clearly their job, not his.

Crowley started small, because they were a professional. Tiny, accidental splashes of juice from setting a cup down too hard at mealtimes, to start. Inadvertent kicks when walking past each other or sitting too close together at tables. Then it grew—engineering a mouse to drop into Michael’s breakfast dish because she laughed at Aziraphale’s sword form, and hiding Uriel’s piano book when they went to practice. Sandalphon was almost too easy; Crowley just had to tie his laces together while he was snoring in the library and the resulting crash from him tripping into a suit of armor had Crowley cackling for days.

And still, Aziraphale looked small, and stared at his hands whenever his cousins were nearby, and he didn’t even snap when Crowley prodded and poked him during reading time, just looked up at them with big sad summer-dawn eyes and made Crowley’s chest feel all funny and kinda guilty.

Fine. A pièce de résistance, to mark midsummer.

“Just trust me on this, angel,” Crowley whispered as they ushered Aziraphale up into their secret tree house, still intact and sporting a retractable rope ladder now. “Sit in here, have some cake, and watch the show. Don’t let down the rope ladder for anyone, I’ll climb up on my own.”

“But…why?” Aziraphale fretted. “What are you about to do?”

“What I do best,” Crowley grinned. “Stir up some mischief.”

Aziraphale’s face warred between amusement and chiding and settled on intrigued. “But why?”

“Because nobody messes with you but me, that’s why,” Crowley said, and to prove their point reached over and tugged on a single white-blond curl. Aziraphale blinked at them and cracked a cautious sort of smile, which made Crowley’s heartbeat speed up for reasons unknown.

No time to think about that, time to enact their plan.

“—much longer do we have to spend here?” Sandalphon asked, his siblings sitting around him on benches as he dipped his feet in the neatly-kept pond in the courtyard the treehouse overlooked. “Our cousin is an insufferable drip and his betrothed is a slippery snake.”

“Family relations are worth maintaining,” Gabriel said pompously, and his pomp was the perfect volume for masking Crowley scuttling behind the hedge, setting up their trap. “It’s just for a few more weeks, and then we can tell Mother that Madam Tracy’s ward isn’t a good successor.”

“If I have to listen to him drone on and on about his books one more time, I shall cut off my ears,” Michael muttered. If Uriel had anything to add to the conversation, they didn’t get the opportunity; at that moment, a bucket full of sun-ripened rotten eggs came crashing down on Gabriel’s perfect coiffure, and an excitable goat came ripping from the underbrush and made a mad dash for the waterfall of lace at Michael’s cuffs, dragging behind it a holey bucket filled with all manner of sludgy refuse that spattered every which way, all across Sandalphon and Uriel’s nice coats. Crowley snuck back to the treehouse, shimmying up it and into the treehouse itself with little effort thanks to their gangly limbs, and found a silently convulsing Aziraphale.

Concern welled up before Crowley realized Aziraphale was actually laughing, tears gathering in his eyes and his hands pressed over his mouth.

“You wily serpent,” Aziraphale gasped between giggles, and Crowley grinned.

“Well, they did call me a snake,” Crowley said, wiggling their eyebrows and widening their eyes for emphasis. “Horribly unoriginal, that.”

“Oh, dear, I think the bucket is stuck on Gabriel’s head,” Aziraphale pointed.

“Serves him right for having such a big, fat one,” Crowley sniffed.

Needless to say, Aziraphale’s cousins did not stay long after that. Crowley was cheeky enough to wave at them as their carriage, hastily packed, tore out of the castle at high speed.

“No one can tell where the buckets and the goats came from,” Madam Tracy sighed to Shadwell.

“Good riddance to ‘em, anyway, never seen noses so high in the air,” Shadwell snorted. Madam Tracy swatted his belly but didn’t argue.

The last night before Crowley left, after several very nice weeks of going back to normal (tormenting Aziraphale in his library and making faces at guards and climbing many, many more trees), there was a quiet tap at their bedroom door. They stood up from their task (cramming one of Aziraphale’s favorite books in their trunk, with the intent on awaiting the angry letter demanding it back when it became clear Aziraphale had not merely misplaced it) and cracked open the door. A tissue-wrapped parcel was immediately shoved into the crack, and before Crowley could see who had handed it to them, they ran away. Crowley caught a flash of pale curls disappearing around a corner, then looked down at the parcel. It was very light.

They tore apart the paper, and cradled in their hands was a delicate golden locket, heart-shaped, with a tiny, beautifully-detailed golden snake curled on the surface. Crowley touched it with awe. It was the prettiest thing they’d ever owned; every fine stitch of clothing and every jewel in Crowley’s wardrobe paled in comparison, in their own estimation.

They still stuck their tongue out at Aziraphale as they boarded the carriage. Couldn’t let Aziraphale get a big head and think they’d come to his rescue this summer out of friendship or anything absurd like that. No, this was pure selfishness, and not wanting anyone but themself to be irritating him on a daily basis during the summer. The locket lay tucked against their breast under their tunic, unobtrusive and unseen, and they rubbed their thumb over the small lump of it every so often, just to make sure it was still there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He/him and she/her for Crowley this chapter, and along with the previous chapter there's going to be some expansion of and slight diversion from the Swan Princess film plot; there's definitely a more palpable catching of Feelings, at any rate, and maybe some complications. But I'll let you read for yourselves. Thanks so much for the comments and kudos! I don't always have the energy to reply but I appreciate you all so much!

It was the eleventh summer since the start of this foolish venture, Aziraphale was sixteen years old, and the Princess Crowley gangled.

He couldn’t help it, poor thing, any more than Aziraphale could help how he himself had grown stocky and wide, but even so, it seemed to Aziraphale that at least Crowley could try to mitigate the circumstance by choosing a less leggy walk. Surely he hadn’t walked like an inexpertly-piloted marionette his whole life; Aziraphale felt he would have noticed that much sinuous hip movement.

Regardless of the nonsense of the new walk, it was nothing compared to the puzzle of the Princess’ mysterious sunburn. It only ever seemed to appear during Aziraphale’s outdoor sword training, though it also sometimes happened even when he practiced indoors. Currently, he was going over his forms with his friend Newton while the Princess, their respective parents, and various retainers sat on a large picnic blanket under a pavilion. The Princess had recently taken to wearing shaded lenses over his unusual eyes, and wore them now, along with a flowing shirt with far too low a neckline, and trousers that only further highlighted how stick-thin his awkward legs were, wielding a fan and looking both bored and insouciant.

“This is dull,” Crowley announced loudly from the tent as Aziraphale and Newton worked on their respective footings. “Ridiculous weapons, swords. Not practical in the least.”

“Weapons are their own practicality,” Aziraphale muttered, though he doubted he was heard.

“Archery,” Crowley said. Aziraphale felt his ears warm at the pointed comment. “Archery’s the only exception. Wicked useful, bow and arrow. Can hunt food with ‘em and everything. Can you hunt with a sword? No. Would look even more daft than this whole exercise.”

“And can you use one, Princess? Either the sword or the bow?” King Shadwell asked, and Aziraphale hid his smile at the grumble that followed.

There was silence for a bit longer, then Crowley loudly asked, “Can’t we make them fight, or something?”

“Oh, a sparring match, how lovely!” Madam Tracy exclaimed. “It would be just the thing, on a nice day like this!”

“It would, at that,” King Shadwell nodded. “Go on, young prince, show my lazy bairn how it’s done, and maybe he’ll apply himself more in his own studies, eh?”

“A Princess likes to be rescued by a handsome hero, you know,” Madam Tracy teased, fluttering her eyelashes. Aziraphale grimaced. Crowley looked sunburnt again, how odd.

“If you’re up for a bout, Newton, I don’t mind prancing like a circus monkey,” Aziraphale sighed.

“G’on, Pulsifer, show ‘em what you’re made of!” Shadwell barked. For reasons unknown, he seemed to have taken a liking to Aziraphale’s companion, which rankled, but so far consisted of little else than Shadwell informing Newt to be on the lookout for anything untoward, including but not limited to witches and suspicious figures calling cats by funny names.

“If—if you’re ready, Aziraphale,” Newt nodded, and with the exasperated guidance of their put-upon sword instructor, they took their places.

Newt, being taller, went for the overhead swing to start, an obvious move Aziraphale could have countered in his sleep. Newt wasn’t a challenging opponent, exactly, but Aziraphale kept getting distracted by Princess Crowley’s intent stare, allowing Newt to score more hits than usual. In all reality, there was no way to tell if Crowley was actually staring or if he’d just fallen asleep behind his dark lenses, but Aziraphale had the sort of hunted feeling that usually preceded his boots being filled with frog spawn, or his bed with garden snakes, or other such mischief he’d been victim to for eleven summers now. While apprehensive, Aziraphale was more surprised to note that the attention, should it be real, wasn’t entirely bad. There was actually something…pleasing…about being the focus of so determined a gaze.

The match ended with Aziraphale’s sword at Newt’s throat. There was polite clapping, then a late burst of quick claps that immediately silenced even as the rest of the applause kept going. Aziraphale glanced over, and Crowley was pursing his lips as if he smelled something awful, red down to his thin chest. Perhaps he was sick? He should really get looked over, if that was the case.

Crowley marched, wobbling the whole way in his fashionable boots and (presumably) fashionable walk, up to Aziraphale as the picnic began to adjourn in the heat, and stood silently as Aziraphale and Newt put away their equipment and the sword instructor gave them both stern pointers.

“That’s not your usual sword,” Crowley announced, after the instructor, getting the hint of the Princess’ tapping foot, concluded his statements and strode away. Aziraphale flushed, and he glanced quickly at the pavilion, but it seemed no one else had heard but Newt, and Newt was good for his silence.

“It was a practice. We use practice swords,” Aziraphale replied.

“I’m not an idiot,” Crowley snapped, and Newt quietly excused himself. Aziraphale mourned the loss but reckoned Newt had made the wisest choice available to him. “You keep your real sword with your wooden swords to get some practice in with the actual thing, but that wasn’t your real sword in your kit today. Where is it?”

Aziraphale gulped. No one else had noticed. How had Crowley been the only one to see?

“Gave it away,” Aziraphale mumbled. Crowley, who seemed to be trying to find the most fashionable way to stand, stilled.

“You what?”

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale burst out, still keeping an eye on the retreating picnic party and refusing to look Crowley in the eye. “It’s a lovely sword, but the gardener’s son was eloping with the brewer’s daughter and they needed either some protection or some starting funds, so I said ‘here you go, royal sword, no need to thank me, get going before they catch you.’” Aziraphale crossed his arms and scuffed his toe in the dirt. “I just…hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

There was a long pause, followed by a sound that seemed confused as to whether it was a cough or a grunt.

“Y’r an angel, don’t think you can do the wrong thing,” Crowley muttered, and kicked Aziraphale’s ankle, not hard. Aziraphale glanced at him and saw that the peculiar sunburn was back. The poor thing needed more shade and perhaps more water, in Aziraphale’s estimation.

“Well…thank you, anyway. It’s been bothering me,” Aziraphale sighed. “Was there something else you needed, or—?”

“M’ fine!” Crowley barked, and stomped off.

Aziraphale pondered this curious interaction, until, in the middle of the night, it hit him in a cold sweat that this was information Crowley could use against him, should he so choose.

And all summer, Aziraphale waited for the other shoe to drop, for Madam Tracy to tut at him and for the young couple to be dragged back to their irate parents and perhaps even framed for theft of a royal artifact. Would Aziraphale even get the chance to vouch for them? Would his testimony count at all, since he wasn’t of age? These were heavy doubts to carry indeed, but the longer the silence on the subject of the sword drew on, the more Aziraphale let himself believe that perhaps it wouldn’t come up at all.

On one of the last nights before Crowley was to depart, Aziraphale was on his own this time, practicing his sword forms in the library. He’d almost got the more complicated set memorized, though he admitted this particular form was more for show than function. And why shouldn’t swordplay be an art as well as a defense? Aziraphale hummed through his motions, until he heard a strangled sort of squeak.

“Hello?” Aziraphale called, dropping the sword into more of a practical defensive position and narrowing his eyes. “I heard you. Come out this instant.”

There was silence, and then Crowley sauntered out from between the shelves, his legs moving in some approximation of a walk. Peeking from beneath his voluminous neckline was a flash of gold chain, and Aziraphale’s throat closed up. He’d never seen Crowley wear the locket since it was given to him, and wondered what it meant that he was wearing it now.

It also occurred to Aziraphale as his own face heated up that Crowley wasn’t sunburned at all, and that he, Aziraphale, was perhaps more than a little silly for not spotting a blush for what it was sooner.

“You…” Crowley began, and coughed. “You…you fight good.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “thank you, I think.”

The silence that filtered between them was awkward and thick.

“You’re…wearing the necklace, I see,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s hand flew to it immediately, closing over the locket with slim fingers. Had Crowley’s hands always been so…elegant?

“Never take it off,” Crowley mumbled. “Not always ‘round the neck, but. Always have it with me. S’nice.”

More silence.

“Well, I think I’ll turn in,” Aziraphale said, at the same time Crowley said, “It’s a nice night, if you want to go for a walk.”

A pause, more awkward than any pause yet in the history of pauses, Aziraphale was sure.

“A walk?” Aziraphale blinked.

“No, you’re right, it’s stupid,” Crowley said, shades impenetrable but cheeks, throat, and chest all unmistakably scarlet, and turned on his heel. Aziraphale felt he should have called out, but he let Crowley walk away instead, puzzling out what that could possibly have been about.

There was still relief when Crowley left at the end of summer, but along with it came a curious sense of feeling bereft Aziraphale didn’t have the vocabulary to really describe, nor did he have the inclination. No matter. Aziraphale was certain things would go back to normal and he would be free to detest Crowley in peace soon enough.

There never did come a full balm to the sense of something missing whenever he practiced his sword, however.

.

On the last night of the final summer before Crowley and Aziraphale came of age, that fifteenth summer having passed quieter than most, Madam Tracy held a ball.

From the look on Aziraphale’s face months prior when the ball was announced at breakfast, he was no stranger to these things, and was not pleased about it. Crowley, for her part, was excited to show off her new breeches, which made her legs and backside look fantastic, and to turn people down for dances and begin cultivating her new “mysterious and aloof” adult persona.

(Certainly not to avoid dancing at all costs; well-educated folks such as herself knew how to dance and could do it very well, thank you. She just…chose not to. Besides, Aziraphale never danced, either, and they were meant to be betrothed or something. Highly inappropriate, dancing with someone who wasn’t your betrothed. Although…being inappropriate certainly had its perks, too…)

“Nice to see the Princess with a smile, for once” was King Shadwell’s only comment, and Aziraphale, true to his nature, had disappeared into his private chambers and not come out all day.

“It’s just a ball,” Crowley rolled her eyes, sitting on Aziraphale’s wide windowsill after scaling the rose trellis outside it. Aziraphale conceded her victory by not immediately pushing her out of the window, and was now pacing while she cleaned out from under her nails with his letter opener. “How bad can it be?”

“Quite bad, in fact,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Can’t be any worse than every summer of our lives,” Crowley snorted. “Try me.”

“Are you familiar with beauty pageants?”

Crowley gulped. She was familiar, in fact; anyone who knew Madam Tracy for more than half a minute knew her opinion on the things. “Come on, it can’t be _that_ bad. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Now, staring at the three bedazzled footmen looking to escort her from her chambers down to the ball below, Crowley was a big enough person to admit when she was wrong. She was also a quiet enough person to give the footmen the slip and dodge out to the only place that was sure to be peaceful and quiet during such an occasion: the library balcony. And it was, to her delight; the noise and glamor of the nobility streaming into the castle was dampened, and though errant partygoers were filtering into the gardens below, the library balcony was situated in such a way that kept it almost private, and it was dark, besides; perfect cover for a slender princess dressed in black to lurk. And, as it turned out, for a stout prince to lean against the railing and…produce steam? No, Crowley realized as she closed the library doors behind her, that was smoke.

“The crown prince, ditching out on his mother’s ball to smoke a pipe on the balcony?” Crowley tutted, and Aziraphale didn’t even flinch, blast him, just blew another smoke ring into the air. “Shocking.”

Aziraphale huffed, and as soon as Crowley leapt up on the railing to lounge, he passed her the pipe and glanced at her with an exasperated sort of amusement. Crowley took the pipe and puffed it with ease.

“Without a chaperone and everything,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Such appalling misconduct.”

“Let’s be honest, our parents have been hoping for appalling misconduct from us since we were fifteen,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale laughed. Crowley took another draw of smoke and then passed it back. “The non-violent kind, anyway.”

“I never laid a hand on you,” Aziraphale pouted.

“No, never,” Crowley grinned, unhooking her shades and laying them by, “because you used your knees to hold me down in that mud puddle when we were six, and swatted me with a broom when we were twelve, and prodded at me with the practice sword last year—”

“And you put pepper in my tea for a month solid, and dropped a wet sponge on my face while I slept, and threw my books off the roof at least three times,” Aziraphale countered, though without any real heat; they were both laughing.

“I’m only sorry about the last one,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale smiled up at her. Crowley’s heart began to thud up into her throat, no longer a new phenomenon around Aziraphale, but it felt…exciting, somehow. Crowley angled her knees and her body to turn more fully towards him and smiled back, occasionally tapping his ribs with her shin.

“No need to apologize,” Aziraphale said, with a curious pause that could have been easily filled with _you pest_ , or, in her more maudlin daydreams, _my dear_. Maybe in the tone of voice that would match his soft, soft eyes, they sounded the same. “I suppose we’re both even.”

Comfortable silence followed, Crowley detaching from eye contact to stare up at the stars above, punctuated by puffs on the pipe.

“Do…d’you ever think about what life would be like, if we weren’t who we are?” Crowley asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I might be a pirate captain, if I didn’t have Shadwell and the kingdom to worry about,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale turned more fully to face her, looking surprised. “Or a highway brigand. Something exciting and roguish.”

“Oh, how romantic,” Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley felt her cheeks catch fire. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to tell in the dark. “I might like to be a bookseller, someday. If the whole ‘king’ business doesn’t…doesn’t work out.”

“Is that likely?” Crowley frowned.

“Mother’s family doesn’t like me much, if you recall,” Aziraphale shrugged. “Never got over that one disappointing summer of acquaintanceship. When Mother dies, they could contest my claim. Which…which is why I assume Mother wants so badly for us to get married, because if I did and our kingdoms merged, their respective claims to the throne wouldn’t hold as much weight.”

“Oh.” Crowley hadn’t known any of this, had never even considered it. For her part, Shadwell had no other notable family or relations that had ever raised a fuss about Crowley’s assumed ascension; it was generally accepted that if Crowley and Aziraphale did manage to get married, she would very much be marrying up, strengthening their little kingdom and granting security. Which Crowley vehemently disagreed with as a reason to base a marriage on, when treaties were a thing, but in light of all the facts…it wasn’t an insubstantial reasoning. Adulthood was so complicated, Crowley grimaced.

“It’s no matter, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. “One more facet of the duty of a prince of a small kingdom with strategic ties to larger ones, that’s all. I’m quite used to being challenged and thought useless.”

“I don’t think you’re useless,” Crowley blurted. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I don’t,” she scowled. “You’re bloody clever, you know? And resilient. Bet you could outwit those ponces with your wits tied behind your back. I’m…well.”

“You’re what?” Was it Crowley’s imagination, or was Aziraphale closer?

“Y’know…just me,” Crowley flushed. He _was_ closer. Close enough to move an errant curl from her face and feel her shiver when he did.

“You are, aren’t you?” Aziraphale smiled, a gentle thing. “And that is quite a wonderful thing, I should think. Just imagine how boring our summers would’ve been if you were anything else.”

Crowley tried to swallow against her pounding heart. The starlight glowed in Aziraphale’s pale hair, shone in his eyes. Had he always been beautiful?

“If we—pretend, for a minute,” Crowley gulped as Aziraphale inexorably moved in, “if I was a pirate, and you were a bookseller, and we’d just met at a fancy party…do you think we could be friends, for a night?”

“Highly unlikely friends,” Aziraphale murmured, oh Someone save her he was really leaning in, this was really happening. “Are you here to steal the host’s jewels, perhaps?”

“Just some hearts,” Crowley whispered, practically against his lips. “One heart, maybe.”

“Scoundrel,” Aziraphale breathed, and closed the distance.

Oh, he’d done this before, Crowley thought as Aziraphale kissed her tenderly, softly. Then it became hard to think of anything at all but the soft slide of his plush mouth and the occasional nip of teeth on her lip.

This was it. Sign her up, slap a ring on her and call her his spouse, this was all she wanted for the rest of her life. They hardly did more than kiss, mouth to mouth, a hand on her waist and a hand on his shoulder and the other two occupied holding each other, but Crowley felt like electricity, her every atom vibrating.

“Prince Aziraphale, your—oh!”

Like a soap bubble, the moment evaporated, and Aziraphale launched himself away from Crowley so hard she almost toppled backwards off the balcony. Light was now streaming over them, held by the valet who had come to fetch Aziraphale and ruin their nice night.

“Yes, I’m coming,” Aziraphale said, and marched off, not even looking back at Crowley once. The valet gave her an awkward bow, and then hurried away with the candlestick, leaving Crowley newly cold and numb and confused. What just happened?

The pipe was still sitting on the rail of the balcony.

A large part of Crowley wanted to take the pipe and hurl it off, to scream, to follow Aziraphale and demand what the bloody heaven _that_ was about. A smaller, quieter part, the part that was still lost in the soft rub of this thumb across the back of her hand, slid her shades back into place, then took up the pipe and pressed it between her teeth, closing her lips around it, another indirect kiss. This one, at least, she could savor, she thought as she finished it off, tapped it out, and slipped the pipe into her pocket. Fine. If he was so ashamed of her, he could have the rest of his night in peace without her there to muddle things up.

Crowley carried the memory with her all the way back home, unsure if it was a fluke or a dream or something else, but she didn’t attempt to meet Aziraphale’s eye as she left and she didn’t give his pipe back. Souvenir and all. She clutched her locket in her fist and sighed. It was unfair, but life was unfair. It was just a kiss. Didn’t mean anything. Tobacco and moonlight, horrible combination. She tucked away the bruised edges of her heart and failed to keep from poking at them all winter long.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've settled into he/him territory for the remainder of the fic for Crowley and the plot has come a-calling, oh dear! Warnings for animal harm and death (aftermath only, nothing explicitly described), that Major Character Death tag coming into play, some blood, and lots and lots of emotional turmoil.

It was upon them: the final summer. This would be make or break for all of the hard work Madam Tracy and King Shadwell had put into their scheme for the past twenty-one years and especially the past sixteen summers. Tensions were high, the staff was on edge, and Aziraphale was certain he was going to be sick.

Whatever spell had been cast over that one night last summer was quite gone (forcibly buried away, stuffed into a trunk and squashed, couldn’t unpack it or else all sorts of things would come bursting out that he wasn’t prepared to deal with). Aziraphale had carefully reviewed the evidence of fifteen years’ worth of miserable summers and concluded that he could choose his own match, thanks all the same, and needed no outside interference. It was unhealthy, wasn’t it, to be forced together so often and not given any other choices? How could he be certain that what he felt was real—or, rather, that it was a good idea? No, much better that they be free of the obligation. Aziraphale needed no rescue, thank you, he could handle his problems on his own, and he was certain Crowley was the same.

He had no doubt that Crowley would be fighting just as hard to keep from coming, as Crowley did every year. He also had no doubt that despite their protests, the implacable hands of fate (or parental determination, take your pick) would smash them together, as does a child with their dolls, regardless of compatibility. Theirs, if indeed there was even a friendship, was one of forced association. This is what Aziraphale told himself as he fretted and paced and fixed his waistcoat upwards of thirty times in twice as many minutes.

“Don’t fret, love, they’ll be along,” Madam Tracy said serenely over her cards.

“I’m not fretting,” Aziraphale lied. “This won’t work, you know.”

“I’m sure it won’t,” Madam Tracy hummed.

“It won’t!” Aziraphale protested. “I’m serious, Mother, we’re just too different!”

“Differences are complements, in a marriage,” Madam Tracy replied. “Besides, dear, I’m not getting any younger, and you’ll need help to run the kingdom and raise some heirs, however you see fit. It’s hard and not a one-person job.”

“You did it,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Because I had to, darling,” Madam Tracy said, looking up from her cards and giving Aziraphale a sad smile. “Because it was my duty. The kingdom is my charge, as it will be yours. And Shadwell’s kingdom will be Crowley’s charge as well. We do all sorts of things, if it fulfills our duty.”

Aziraphale had little to say in reply, but the wording certainly stuck with him. Duty, indeed.

In no time at all, he was pushed and prodded and cajoled along, Madam Tracy on one side and her young new steward Anathema on the other. Anathema was a recent hire and came very well recommended; she was around Aziraphale’s age, dark-eyed and intense, and Aziraphale was completely frightened of her in a friendly sort of way. Her presence in getting him to behave for Princess Crowley’s arrival was just cheating, really.

“I could do much better, I am sure,” Aziraphale mumbled to himself as the door was shut behind him in the great hall. This was certainly not new, either, locking the two of them in rooms together was a favorite pastime, but Aziraphale didn’t appreciate it now any more than he did in adolescence. Perhaps even less, with certain…memories…clawing up his back.

“Oi!” Aziraphale heard from the opposite end of the hall, and his heart thumped hard. “Put me down, I’m not someone’s unruly cat! He’s insufferable, honestly, do we have to go through this every time?”

Aziraphale blinked as a tall, slender person was pushed into the room, then spun about as the cloak around their shoulders was ripped away. Long fiery curls swung free from the hood, and an elegant close-tailored black gown hugged the lean figure. Aziraphale would know Crowley anywhere, in any guise and presentation and affectation, but this…

Crowley was crossing his arms, facing away from Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was glad for the time to catch his breath from the sudden tightness in his chest and the rapid, incessant banging of his heart against the clench. Crowley gangled no longer, nor did he strut with seemingly mismatched legs. All the disparate, awkward parts seemed to have finally found their place, making an impossibly lovely whole, the awkward duckling into the graceful swan. And Aziraphale was just seeing the _back_ of him. He swallowed, which turned to a throat-clearing, and Crowley spun around. His dark glasses were missing.

“What?” Crowley hissed, and then gurgled, yellow eyes widening, taking him in. Aziraphale smiled. Well, at least some things didn’t change.

Aziraphale inclined his head. “Princess Crowley.”

Crowley nodded, then nodded again, shaking his head. “Right. Um. Prince Aziraphale.” He spread his skirts in a low curtsy. “Happy to be here and all, thanks for the invite.”

“Any time,” Aziraphale said. What on earth was happening right now? Why were his hands so sweaty?

He marched towards Crowley and made his bow, then extended his hand for Crowley’s for the customary kiss. Crowley hesitated, as he so often did, but the shy, tentative place of his hand within Aziraphale’s caused another throat spasm that choked Aziraphale’s throat and chest. Crowley was wearing the locket openly, not tucked under a collar or hidden beneath a bodice. Aziraphale raised Crowley’s hand to his lips and flicked his eyes up to Crowley’s as he kissed it. Crowley’s cheeks flushed and he made another small, aborted half-sound. Aziraphale knew that sound now, just as he knew the hitch of his throat and the pressure of those teeth pressing fleetingly into his own lip.

The memory of their last meeting strove with violence to break through its trunk to the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind. He suppressed it with difficulty and stood.

“Walk with me?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley nodded. Aziraphale hesitated, then tucked Crowley’s hand into the crook of his elbow. More shockingly, Crowley let it remain, and in fact tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s arm as they made their way to the back garden.

“How…how’s your father?” Aziraphale asked as they walked.

“Doing well,” Crowley nodded. “And your mother?”

“Watching from the bushes, I think,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley cracked a grin. “I hope it’s not too forward of me to say you look beautiful today.”

“Heghk,” Crowley said. “Um. Th-thanks.” His fingers squeezed Aziraphale’s arm. “You. Look good, too. Always have. Um. I mean. But right now. Great look, overall. Love the waistcoat.”

“It’s the same waistcoat I’ve worn since I was eighteen,” Aziraphale said, bemused but pleased.

“And it works,” Crowley coughed. “Er. I…like that you’re comfortable. Makes me feel…looks good on you, is what I mean.”

Aziraphale thought he heard tiny gasps from the shrubbery but endeavored to ignore them. He and Crowley talked as the sun traveled overhead; the conversation got less stilted as time went on, and they walked so long in the garden he was certain they’d worn holes in the paved path, but he had no inclination to stop and neither did Crowley, it seemed. The world seemed to hang from a string, delicate and precious and prone to the slightest mishap to knock it loose. Eventually they ran out of small talk, and the ever-present elephant in the room loomed.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, stopping by the pond and valiantly ignoring the many, many eyes watching around the garden and failing to be furtive about it, “Princess Crowley, I…I think it’s time we made our decision, don’t you?”

“Decision,” Crowley croaked, then cleared his throat. “Decision. Right.”

“Given—given that it’s expected,” Aziraphale said, “and—and while we’ve had our reservations and our…moments…it is…our duty, after all.”

“Duty,” Crowley repeated, more flatly.

“I declare,” Aziraphale said, raising his voice, “my willingness to enter into a marriage with the Princess Crowley, if he’ll have me.”

There was an explosion of sound from the garden, and it was suddenly swarming with people, not least of all Aziraphale’s mother and Crowley’s father, and while Aziraphale’s face was burning, he couldn’t help but notice that Crowley’s expression had gone from cautious to shuttered in an instant.

“Wait,” Crowley said.

In their shock, a set of servants carrying hors d’oeuvres pulled up short, and one dropped his platter. It rolled and tangled with the feet of a hastily-set-up miniature orchestra, the trombonist of which managed to launch part of his instrument, until it nearly collided with Anathema’s face. She caught the errant piece instead, thunderclouds gathering in her eyes, as the assemblage fell silent at last.

“Wait?” Aziraphale frowned. “Whatever for? You’re so—that is, I foresee this match being…most agreeable, all things considered.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said wryly. “But what else?”

King Shadwell cleared his throat loudly, shaking his head. Crowley ignored him, his eyes focused on Aziraphale, who was beginning to feel even more trepidatious.

“I…” Aziraphale swallowed.

“Is duty all that matters to you?” Crowley frowned, and pulled his hands from Aziraphale’s grip. “To be bound to someone just because you have to be? What else?”

Aziraphale felt like he was drowning, all of a sudden.

“Darling?” Madam Tracy hissed through her teeth. “What else?”

“What…what else…is there?” Aziraphale heard himself say.

The air left the garden abruptly.

Shadwell cursed. Madam Tracy burst into tears.

Crowley gave Aziraphale a sad, searching look, shook his head, and turned away as the blood roared in Aziraphale’s ears.

.

“Well, we tried, Tracy,” Shadwell sighed as he and Crowley sat on their horses at the gate. There was no need to hang around, as far as Crowley was concerned; he’d gotten his answer, and was continuing to get it in the way Aziraphale refused to make eye contact. Not that Crowley was trying much on his end, either, but… “No one can say we didn’t make an honest go of it.”

Madam Tracy sniffed into her handkerchief, which she had been sobbing into for the last hour.

“Say your goodbyes, bairn,” Shadwell said, his rough voice softened by the pet name. Crowley took a deep breath.

“Goodbye,” he said, and began to turn away.

“Goodbye…?” Shadwell prompted sternly.

Crowley swallowed hard. “Prince Aziraphale.”

There was the sound of elbowing behind him, and he turned around just in time to see Aziraphale throw Madam Tracy a reproachful look and then turn his big sad eyes onto Crowley. “Goodbye, princess,” Aziraphale said softly, and immediately Crowley had to look away, it was too confusing and painful. He urged his horse to begin walking away. They would meet their carriage at the main road, in order for them to make their proper final goodbyes here at the gate; Crowley felt Shadwell’s eyes burning into the side of his skull the entire ride, but neither spoke until they were safely inside their carriage.

“I can’t wrap my head around it, bairn,” Shadwell said eventually. “What more did ye need him to say?”

Crowley clenched his jaw, then sighed, deflating. “I won’t marry him if he doesn’t love me,” Crowley said, and Shadwell’s eyebrows raised. “I don’t want to be tolerated or simply respected. I won’t be used. I want a partnership that means something. If…if duty’s all he cares about, he can run his kingdom on his own and use his own big brain to keep it, he doesn’t need me, and I don’t need him to keep mine. But if he loved me, I would’ve been happy. With him.”

Shadwell sighed, and Crowley deflated further, wrapping his arms around himself. “Well. Looks like old Tracy and I half-did it, anyway. M’sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley gave a thin smile. Then the carriage jolted to a stop.

“What the devil?” Shadwell muttered, and opened the carriage door. “Stay here, bairn, I’ll see what’s—”

There was a burst of green light, an unearthly roar, Shadwell’s cry of alarm, and then the world exploded.

.

“What else is there?” Anathema thundered along with the ominous weather outside, snatching up another scrap of fabric dropped in the mad rush to clean up what was supposed to have been an engagement party in the great hall. “Crowley asks, is duty all that matters to you, and you say, _what else is there_?”

“I know,” Aziraphale mumbled, limp in the armchair he was piled into that was in the great hall by Anathema’s force of will (and perhaps perverse desire to have him lie in the place of his shame, or adjacent to it, anyway, and witness the mess he’d made). Across from him, in another armchair, sat Newton, who was using Aziraphale’s apparent distraction to cheat at their chess game, with middling success.

“You should write a book,” Anathema scoffed. “How To Offend Prospective Partners In Five Syllables Or Less.”

“I’m well aware of my foolishness, thank you, Anathema,” Aziraphale sighed, and made a move on the board before retreating back behind his hands. “I was…put on the spot.”

“You could have at least worded it better, if you really were just marrying him out of obligation,” Anathema continued, pacing. If she had had a tail, it would’ve been lashing the air behind her as she walked. “Nothing wrong with marrying for duty when you’re royal, it’s practically expected, but you could have at least—”

“I wasn’t only thinking of duty and obligation,” Aziraphale muttered behind his hands.

“Lost your queen, Aziraphale,” Newt said mildly.

“That’ll be twice in a day,” Aziraphale sighed, then pinkened. “Oh. Um.”

“What else were you thinking of, then?” Anathema asked, for the first time in an hour slowing to a stop.

The trunk in Aziraphale’s mind bucked. It thrashed. Notes of forbidden tobacco and a slender hand in his own threatened to surface, clamoring loudly for attention.

“Oh…things,” Aziraphale said, and made another move on the chess board despite the fact that he only had four pieces left and Newt wasn’t even trying to hide how he’d just pilfered a pawn.

Anathema raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t—I don’t know how to—” Aziraphale swallowed hard, against remembrances of a certain full-throated laugh and gleaming fiery hair in the sun and star-studded yellow eyes. He harrumphed. He cleared his throat.

“Oh,” Anathema realized. “You actually have feelings for Crowley, don’t you?”

The trunk burst free.

For a glorious moment, Aziraphale was immolated by the force of his own repressed emotions, coursing like wildfire throughout his body. He could have floated. He could have sung. He could have danced. Then doubt and shame doused him like an ice bath, and twice as cold.

“I’m not certain,” Aziraphale said softly, sinking down into his chair further. “For as long as either of us can remember, we’ve been told we’d someday wed, every June until September, forced together. And now, when I think about him, everything is…confused. I’m attracted, certainly; Crowley has grown up very prettily indeed, but forefront is the…the doubt that perhaps we never really learned to even like each other properly.” Aziraphale covered his eyes again. The great hall lights and Anathema’s attention and even Newt’s solid sympathy felt like too much. “How do I know if what I feel is real? And furthermore, I’d have to be a fool to set aside the political implications to marrying Crowley, aside from the personal satisfaction. Reason enough to marry, certainly, but dangerous to mistake for real feelings. Perhaps I did us both a favor, saying what I did, before the stakes got too much higher.”

“Breaking hearts is rarely a kindness, but there are exceptions, I suppose,” Anathema mused, approaching the chess board and looking markedly more calm. “I can’t answer this one for you. Maybe you’re right, and what you both need is some distance and time to sort out how you really feel about each other, no pressure or obligation. It certainly can’t hurt.” Anathema suddenly struck, taking Aziraphale’s captured queen piece from Newt’s lineup and slamming it onto the board so hard Newt’s king wobbled and fell. “But saying what you said did no favors, to Crowley or to you, and it’s something you should rectify immediately. Write him a letter. Explain what you’re feeling. Be an adult about it.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply—to disagree or to acquiesce, he wasn’t sure—when the double doors of the great hall burst open, and in staggered a mustachioed man in armor, his face milk-white, his armor torn and sporting bleeding gashes as he collapsed.

“It’s—that’s Captain Bottle, that’s King Shadwell’s captain,” Aziraphale said, or might have only thought as he ran to the man’s side, turning him over onto his back, wincing at the dire wounds in his chest. What on earth…?

“Attacked,” Captain Bottle croaked, breathing very fast. “Some great—great beast—King Shadwell—hurt—princess—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered as Captain Bottle fell unconscious, and as if possessed Aziraphale bolted for the stables to fetch his horse. A ringing, screaming panic flooded his mind as he rode the horse hard, trying desperately to follow the fresh horse tracks, then the carriage tracks, as the rain from the dark clouds above began to descend.

It was raining in earnest when Aziraphale caught up to the carriage wreck. It looked as if some vicious beast had used it as a chew toy, tearing it up and knocking it on its side, then set intermittent fires, judging on the scorch marks in the ground and surrounding trees. Dead and crushed guards and horses littered the ground. Aziraphale’s gorge rose.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, wrenching open the tipped-over carriage, both relieved and unsettled to find it empty. “King Shadwell!”

A wet cough answered, and Aziraphale ran to the other side of the carriage, around the one dead horse and the space where a second should have been, and saw King Shadwell in a heap against the carriage, his chest burnt and torn and ugly slashes across his arms and legs.

“King Shadwell,” Aziraphale breathed, and knelt by him, grasping his hand.

“’ziraphale,” Shadwell gasped, blood on his lips, “it came so quickly, it—listen, lad—not what it seems, not—not what it seems—bloody great beast—”

“A great beast?” Aziraphale repeated, then filed the thought away. “Where is Crowley?”

“Crowley,” Shadwell rasped, his old eyes filling up with either rainwater or tears, “Crowley…wee bairn…gone…gone…”

Shadwell shuddered, then fell still.

Aziraphale, cold and wet, stood after a long moment in numb shock. Then he began looking around wildly—for tracks, maybe, or some kind of sign—

Something gold shone in a puddle. Aziraphale pounced on it, fishing it out, and saw Crowley’s locket, the clasp broken as if it had been yanked from his neck. Aziraphale cradled it in his shaking hands, his heart aching. Crowley hadn’t taken it off since they were eleven. He opened it to shake out some of the water, and saw two miniature paintings winking up at him—one of a familiar, dear yellow eye, the other of his own blue-hazel eye.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sobbed, clutching the locket to his chest. This was his fault. Crowley was gone, and there was no telling where to, and Aziraphale had caused this. If they’d never left the castle, they never would have met this…this Great Beast, whatever it was.

The rain came down in implacable, unseasonably cold sheets.

.

Far away, though perhaps not quite as far as one might think, a small, slight figure with dark hair and a ragged suit fed breadcrumbs to a handsome black swan as the moon rose from between patchy clouds.

“Szzzorry about this,” the sorcerer Beelzebub said, though they didn’t sound very sorry, in Crowley’s opinion. “The curse is just a precaution. Insurance, really. Doesn’t even last forever, just during the day. Once you’re on the lake, and the moonlight touches your wingszz…well, look.” Beelzebub gestured at the moon, now well above the tree line, and Crowley, who had been suffering for the better part of the evening getting used to having wings and a long neck and webbed feet, felt the warm glow of magic in his feathers as the moonlight gleamed down on him. There was a curious pulling-stretching feeling, in contrast to the squashed feeling when he was first transformed, and the force of the transformation kicked up the water around him in a kind of cocoon. When the water fell away, Crowley felt he was himself again, though his legs were shaky as he made his way back to the shore, fury and grief and confusion warring for dominance in his breast and all three agreeing on violence. He got as far as three steps towards Beelzebub when they snapped their fingers, and vines sprouted from the ground and tangled around his ankles.

“None of that, now, Princess, or it’ll be a long szzzummer for us both,” Beelzebub said with the barest hint of humor in their ice-blue eyes.

“What do you want?” Crowley snarled, kicking his feet to try and free them from the vines and only succeeding in falling to his knees, which were also quickly tangled up. Beelzebub watched with mild interest as Crowley managed to get himself further encased, and only snapped their fingers to free him once he stopped struggling.

“Shadwell’s kingdom,” Beelzebub said. A pulse of concentrated rage flared in Crowley’s chest as he got to his feet again.

“You killed him already. Go ahead and take it, you have the power,” Crowley snapped.

“An unfortunate accident,” Beelzebub yawned. “I ran the numbers. Statistically, I’ll have greater success in keeping my hold on the kingdom if I marry the heir to the throne and obtain the office of ruler legally. Onczzze you steal something, you spend ages trying to keep it, and that’s an inefficient use of my time.”

Crowley blinked, momentarily baffled.

“I’m aszzzking you to marry me, idiot,” Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “And to let the kingdom pass into better management.”

“What—no!” Crowley sputtered. “You don’t get to kill my father, then kidnap me and turn me into a bloody bird, and then ask to marry me! That’s not how that works!”

“No, how it workszzz is forcing your children to spend their summers together until they’re psychologically unable to choose anyone else regardless of if they actually like each other or not,” Beelzebub smirked. “Well. I have time. I can be patient.”

“I’m not listening to this,” Crowley scoffed, and began walking away.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“Back home,” Crowley snapped. “Or to Aziraphale’s castle, whichever’s closest. You can’t keep me here.”

“I don’t have to,” Beelzebub said, and something in their tone made Crowley stop. “Did you forget the bit where you turn into a bird? If you want to change back to a human, you have to be on the lake at moonrise, but turning into a swan once the moon sets…happens no matter where you are, Princesszzz.”

Crowley’s jaw worked. His hands clenched. He stormed into the forest. He’d just have to see about that.

As it turned out, wearing a nice dress and slippers was not great for forest travel.

As it also turned out, Crowley felt the squashing-shrinking sensation close to dawn, and when he looked down at himself after the brief magical energy flare died down, he was looking at a black swan body again.

Beelzebub wasn’t at the shore when Crowley unsteadily flew back to the lake as if guided by some internal sense of direction, which was just as well. Plenty of time for Crowley to tuck his head under his great black wing and pretend to sleep while he despaired and shed a few all-too-human tears into his own feathers. This was a right mess, make no mistake. Crowley didn’t have a single clue on how to get out of it.

Well. If it was a curse, then there had to be a way to break it. That’s how it happened in stories, the lovely innocent under a secret curse and the attractive knight to rescue them. Crowley had never much liked playing the part of the damsel in distress, finding it far more heroic to swoop in and save the day, but if he did have to be the ingenue in this tale, then there had to be a hero, too…

In the darkest parts of his secret heart, Crowley thought of Aziraphale and hoped.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skip, y'all! We flash forward to late summer/early autumn for this chapter, which is (presumably) a longer time skip than in the film, but some longer time apart felt more emotionally fraught so I did it. Also warnings for a hurt animal (who is fine), and a sorcerer attempting to coerce a princess to marry them, but y'all probably knew that already.

The breeze carried the slightest hint of autumn chill and the sky was a fine jewel-blue, and on the castle green, a lineup of irritable people in costumes harrumphed and tapped their feet.

Newt sighed. Volunteers only, of course, as per Prince Aziraphale’s request, but volunteers had become rather light on the ground since the disappearance of the Princess Crowley; too few were eager to cross swords with him when his arm struck harder and faster, and even fewer were obliged when his archery aim began markedly improving. Those who had gathered today were less than pleased about it but more than ready to endure a few welts if it earned them a favor from Steward Anathema—a currency more reliable than gold, in many circles, Newt’s included. Unfortunately for Newt, his primary loyalties were to Aziraphale, meaning he needed no outward incentive to help Aziraphale train, and so no hand-crafted poultices made by Anathema’s clever hands and earned for his services would be making their way to his rooms to cherish today.

“Buck up, Newt, it’s a good day,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, knocking the end of one of the practice arrows against his boot and shaking some of the blue powdered paint loose. “You have a sporting chance this time around.”

“Sporting,” Newt said, and looked at the lineup of assorted guardsmen and plucky servants dressed in various camouflages to help them blend into the castle grounds. “Right.”

“Your Highness, the targets are ready,” Anathema announced from the end of the line, where she had been in quiet conversation with a short flautist from the royal orchestra sporting rabbit ears and an overlarge grubby white coat. “Harry here agreed to be the rabbit this time around. One hundred points if you catch him, as usual.”

“Thanks ever so, Harry,” Aziraphale said, and Harry gave a thumb’s-up of sour acquiescence. Newt looked at him, not only wearing rabbit’s ears and a coat with a tail sewn onto the seat, but his face painted up as well, and wondered what Harry was getting out of it to be the prized target this time around. The lingering look Harry gave Anathema as she strode away said plenty, and Newt scowled.

“You’ll have five minutes, same as last time,” Anathema announced as she strode towards Aziraphale, and Newt left off his attempts to catch Harry’s attention and promise him pain with his eyes. “Are you ready, Aziraphale?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Aziraphale nodded, and reached for one of the blindfolds resting on the table that also held the hourglass Anathema would be using to keep time. “Ready, dear Newton?”

“I—right, yeah, course,” Newt nodded, momentarily distracted by Anathema’s perfume and scrambling to catch up. Anathema rolled her eyes as Newt fumbled and dropped his blindfold, then took it from him when he did it again.

“Are you sure you don’t want better competition?” Anathema asked sharply as she spun Newt around by the shoulder and set about tying his blindfold for him. Newt could feel his ears and the back of his neck burning and hoped she didn’t notice, but reasoned that even if she did, it wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway.

“Newt is perfectly serviceable as far as sparring partners go,” Aziraphale said, and Newt felt his ears flush again. “On your mark, Anathema.”

“Of course.”

Newt felt a light tug on the string that would rip the blindfold from his face once Anathema counted down and tensed, holding his bow more securely. Once upon a time, he’d actually been better than Aziraphale at archery, which spoke more about Aziraphale’s negligence than Newt’s skill, but even so, Newt was determined this time to at least not completely fail. Maybe if he just targeted that jerk Harry, he’d get somewhere with it.

“Three,” Anathema counted, “two, one—go!”

She yanked the strings, which whipped the blindfolds from their faces, and Newt was unfortunate enough to be dazzled by a bright flash of sunlight off of a nearby puddle and blinded again. He heard Aziraphale’s bowstring twang already and swore, shaking his head and getting his own bow up into position. Where had that rabbit gone off to?

Newt was aware, of course, that Aziraphale was rapidly emptying his quiver as Newt set off to track Harry the Rabbit. He was also aware that this was a waste of his time, that it was illogical to get wrapped up in the wrong competition, but Newt also reasoned that if he managed to land enough hits on Harry, Harry might not want to be the rabbit again, and thus wouldn’t have cause to hang around Anathema and follow her with his eyes like that. Not that Newt thought he himself had a chance with her, and maybe he was being a little too territorial and sexist about what could have just been Harry glaring at her back for making him be a rabbit in the first place. Perhaps it was actually Newt’s duty to catch Harry the Rabbit and shoot at him and thus give him a reason to be released from the role. Maybe Aziraphale would give up on using live targets if he saw Harry the Rabbit so marked up.

His priorities thus rearranged and with four whole minutes still to go, Newt redoubled his efforts at hunting Harry the Rabbit and ignoring all other targets.

Newt found him at three and a half minutes to go, and took his shot as Harry danced on the garden wall and insolently waved his cotton tail in the air. He missed, unfortunately, painting the wall with a puff of red powdered paint, and Harry took off like lightning, Newt in pursuit, nocking another arrow.

“If you let me hit you, you won’t have to do this again!” Newt called after his sixth arrow hit a tree instead of Harry the Rabbit. Harry the Rabbit responded by blowing a raspberry at him. Well, alright, if he was going to be like that, Newt would just have to try harder. Harry the Rabbit’s dedication to his character was commendable, really. Newt lost track of him entirely for a short time, though he popped back into view now and then. How was he so fast? Newt gritted his teeth and followed after, chasing the bouncing ears and the overlarge coat.

When Anathema called time, Newt had expended all but one of his arrows and not managed to land a single splotch of red paint on anything but the scenery. He walked back behind Harry the Rabbit as Anathema called the targets to line up, balancing his final arrow in his hand, and got a sneaky idea as Anathema busied herself counting the blue paint impacts on the other targets. Newt waited for Harry the Rabbit to stand still, then rapidly daubed both of Harry’s shoulders and the top of his head with his red powdered paint.

“There you go,” Newt whispered as Harry the Rabbit scowled at him, and Newt trotted back to stand by Aziraphale, who was rubbing paint residue from his bow and idly listening to Anathema’s sums as she counted.

“…for a final tally of two hundred and ninety-eight,” Anathema announced a short time later, and Aziraphale glanced up, smiling. “Well done, Your Highness. Now, to count Newt’s…” Anathema scanned the lineup, then looked over her shoulder at Newt and raised an eyebrow. “Did you even try?”

Newt shrugged. Anathema shook her head. “Alright. Now to tally up the White Rabbit points…oh!”

Harry the Rabbit was giving Newt the biggest side-eye, but said nothing as Anathema mouthed, then shook her head, at the three splotches of red paint on Harry’s clothing and head. “Three hundred points for Newt, then,” Anathema said, in a barely-controlled sigh.

“Bad luck, mate,” Newt said, looking at Aziraphale, who was beaming. “Might should just stick to what you’re best at—”

“As you say,” Aziraphale said, still smiling, and it occurred to Newt that his eyes were sparkling, which was not always a good sign. “Harry, do turn around for a moment, dear boy.”

Harry the Rabbit obliged, and there, hiding under the sewn-on tail, was an unmistakable impact mark of blue. Anathema laughed and Newt sighed as Aziraphale said, “I believe that’s three hundred and ninety-eight points in total to your three hundred, Newton, but I thank you for your optimism.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Newt said, and gave a rueful smile as Aziraphale clapped him on the back. “I’m going to just have to live with the fact that you’re better than me at this now.”

“More in practice, perhaps,” Aziraphale said, and passed Newt one of the waterskins sitting out for their refreshment. Newt accepted it gratefully. “You’re still better than me at many things, I’m sure.”

“Oh, sure,” Newt nodded. “Like—like—um—”

“Like courage, perhaps?” Anathema said, and Newt jumped, inhaling water down the wrong pipe and choking. Anathema seemed to enjoy watching him suffer, Newt thought as he struggled to breathe. “How about a round of Catch and Fire? It’s been a while since we did that one. Great game. Harder to cheat at.” Here Anathema fixed Newt with a hard look and Newt quailed.

“C-C-Catch and Fire?” Newt squeaked. “We shouldn’t—”

“Oh, that sounds marvelous,” Aziraphale exclaimed, and Newt was faced with Aziraphale’s exuberance and Anathema’s clear malevolent glee both staring at him. “Go on, Newt, it’s been an age, let’s do.”

Newt considered himself a practical, sensible sort of fellow, but caught between two of the more important people in his life asking him to do something he did not enjoy or think in the least bit practical or sensible, his will crumbled like old pastry. Which is how he found himself kitted out in a breastplate and helm, an apple secured to the top of his head, aiming a blunted arrow at Prince Aziraphale’s back and shaking like a leaf, murmuring prayers to whichever god or deity or spirit happened to be listening. At least Aziraphale was wearing a shield, as well, though where Newt was aiming between the shoulders would still hurt quite a bit if struck at the wrong angle.

“Oh, please,” he eventually settled on whimpering, “oh, please, oh, please, oh, please—”

“Get on with it!” Anathema said after several minutes, and Newt jumped again, a startled cry leaving his lips as his hand on the arrow slipped and he loosed it without meaning to. Newt’s heart stopped entirely as he watched the shaft fly towards the Prince, immediately plagued with visions of the gallows and dank dungeon cells for the crime of killing Aziraphale during a training accident. Would they let him say goodbye to his mother, at least?

In a blink, Prince Aziraphale turned, caught the arrow, nocked it, and loosed it back at Newt, who was mid-panic about funerals and whether beheadings were still the done thing and didn’t have time to worry about his own imminent training accident before the apple tied to his helmet was split by the force of the arrow thudding into it and it was all over. Newt’s knees knocked, then collapsed entirely as Anathema laughed herself silly.

“You alright there, Newt?” Aziraphale called. Newt wheezed.

“One good thing about you, Master Pulsifer,” Anathema cackled as she trotted over to him, picking up one of the apple halves and biting into it, looking down at him with a toothy grin. “You’re always up for anything, aren’t you?”

Newt wheezed again and closed the visor of the helmet to give himself some privacy as Anathema continued laughing.

“Most invigorating, truly,” Aziraphale said brightly from somewhere a bit more nearby than Newt was expecting, but Newt was in Helmet Town and unavailable for further spooking just yet. “Anathema, tell everyone who participated today to take the rest of the week off, I think I’m fit enough to fight any opponent I should happen to encounter.”

“Or any Great Beast?” Anathema hinted, and sighed at some nonverbal sign of Aziraphale’s. “Your Highness, with all due respect—”

“Please don’t,” Aziraphale said, his voice still polite but several degrees colder. “I’m aware of the kingdom gossip. You don’t have to pile it on.”

“Not piling it on,” Anathema said. Newt found he was quite comfortable not emerging from his helmet just yet, actually. “I’m just…I don’t want to see you hurt. More hurt. There’s been no sign for weeks, no trace, and you’ve looked everywhere. I don’t think you should set your hopes too high, Aziraphale.”

“I’m not hoping,” Aziraphale said, and while his voice wasn’t as cold as it had been, it was more weary. “I know. I _know_ Crowley is out there somewhere still. I will find him, no matter how long it takes.”

There was a long silence.

Anathema sighed again. “Okay. Whatever you think is best, Your Highness. It’s not like my card readings have been conclusive either way.”

“I’m going to the library for the day,” Aziraphale said, and Newt felt a tentative tap on his breastplate from the end of a bow. “Newt? Are you alright, dear boy?”

“Fine,” Newt said, and sat up, flicking up the visor of the helmet as he did so. “I’ll join you in a few minutes, just going to finish cleaning up out here.”

“Jolly good,” Aziraphale nodded, and after a brief nod to Anathema he began trotting back to the castle, his shoulders slumped. Newt watched him go, then scrambled to his feet, pulling off the helmet. Anathema was still watching Aziraphale’s retreating back, biting her lip.

“He hasn’t been sleeping,” Newt said softly. “Not that he’s been sleeping much at all since Crowley…disappeared…but it’s been worse, lately.”

“Summer’s ending,” Anathema replied, equally quietly. “They’ve never had a summer apart, not since they were little kids.” Anathema turned her quick dark eyes on Newt, fixing him in place. “Take care of him, as much as he’ll let you. Denial can postpone the grief for only so long.”

Newt nodded, then offered his arm. “Should we go back?”

Anathema considered him, then looped her arm with his. “Why not? You didn’t pass out this time during Catch and Fire, so I suppose you’re not entirely incapable.”

“My full title,” Newt nodded. “Newton the Not Entirely Incapable.”

Anathema’s laughter startled him, but it was nice, as well.

.

Adam, currently a puffin, was flying home. Well, not home, as such, more the base of operations for him and his friends, but that was alright; the others hadn’t fared as luckily as he had in the roulette of Beelzebub’s transmogrified forms, and it was easier for him, a winged creature, to leave, than it was for some of the others, and until they figured out how to lift their curses, this would have to be the working arrangement for now.

It had been a fine summer abroad, one of the best in Adam’s relatively short life; as he’d flown during the day, he had enjoyed the changing leaves on the trees. Now that it was dark, he enjoyed it less, but the appreciation for the seasonal change remained. Finding Beelzebub’s lake by waning moonlight wasn’t as difficult as it could have been, thanks to a curious sense of direction pointing him to his destination, though whether this was cleverness on Beelzebub’s part or part of Adam’s own latent magical abilities (for he fancied himself a great wizard, one day, once he managed to shed the beak) remained to be seen. He was full of tales of his latest adventures abroad, and was ready to acquaint his friends with them, and in particular with the story of a friend he’d made recently who had a name worse than any he knew of, Pepper’s full birth name included (Warlock; unique, perhaps prescriptive, but only time would tell). He was, in fact, so ready and so focused, that the arrow that shot from the trees and clipped his wing came as a complete surprise.

Adam had a sense of vertigo, and perhaps glimpsed a familiar silvery glint in his periphery as he spiraled, but shock from pain and unconsciousness swiftly pulled him under. When he came to, very surprised to not be dead, he found he couldn’t much move nor could he much speak, but he could hear, and the voices were, at least, familiar.

“Is he dead?”

“Will he be alright?”

“Crowley, please, you have to help him!”

I’m alright, Adam wanted to say, and who’s Crowley?

“Back off, you lot, I need room to work,” a completely unfamiliar voice snapped, and Adam’s sluggish heart leapt into his throat. More than that, he was being touched—by _fingers_. That was downright unnatural. He hadn’t been touched by a human hand unexpectedly since his capture and transformation. Where was he? Where were his friends?

He must have been beginning to struggle, because the new voice said, “Wensley, hold him down—gently. I need to get at this wing.” A moment later, a familiar turtle-shaped weight descended, and Adam wheezed, but couldn’t move. “Good. See? Looks like a clean pass, might’ve just nicked it, but I’ll have to patch it and pull this broken feather. It’ll hurt a bit. Good thing he’s out.”

I’m not out at all, Adam wanted to indignantly squawk, but more managed a groan. He would have tried to say more, but he must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, there was a sharp pain in his wing, followed by a sense of relief as the more pressing pain finally receded some. Felt like a flight feather, which was workable but wouldn’t be at all attractive. At last, though, the plucking of the feather seemed to waken Adam’s brain to the point where he felt he could open his eyes.

His vision swam, but soon enough he saw the shell of his friend Wensleydale, perched on which was his other friend, Brian, currently a frog. Pepper’s feline face loomed soon after, her luminous orange eyes bright in the dark, whiskers twitching. And there, just above them all, an unfamiliar red-haired figure in a black dress, holding a familiar black feather.

“Hello,” Adam said, or tried; he might have squawked instead. He tapped his untouched wing against Wensleydale’s shell. “Let me up, I’m alright.”

“What happened?” Pepper demanded as Wensleydale lumbered off of him and turned his leathery face towards Adam instead. “You were shot.”

“You know about as much as I do, then,” Adam said, and looked at the human-shaped person. “Who are you? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“And I’ve never seen you, either,” the person snorted. “Call me Crowley.”

“Princess Crowley,” Brian added. “He’s been here with us all summer.”

“Does Beelzebub know?” Adam asked. Crowley scowled. “Ah. They do, then. We’ve never had a princess here before.”

“Lucky me,” Crowley muttered. “Who’re you, then? And, if you don’t mind me saying, what, exactly, are you?”

“I’m Adam,” replied Adam. “I’m a boy. Well, at the moment, I’m a puffin, but sooner or later I’m going to be a boy again.”

“Right,” Crowley said, and held up the missing feather from Adam’s wing. “Neat little clip you’ve got there. Could have been a lot worse.”

“I have had worse, actually,” Adam said, puffing out his chest. “It’s not easy being an exotic bird in a temperate climate, you know. People are always wanting to stuff and mount you on their mantles, or prod and poke and figure out what exactly you are. Some people are convinced I’m a demon, sometimes, just because they’ve never seen a puffin before, but that’s rare. I’m going to be a magician, when I grow up. Or maybe a merchant. I haven’t decided.”

Crowley laughed, and it sounded rusty, like he hadn’t in a while. Adam stretched his wing, feeling the small injury, and came to a decision.

“Anyway, thanks for helping my wing,” Adam said. “And for keeping my friends company while I’m away. I’ve decided I’m going to stick around and help you out until I’ve paid you back. Maybe get that spell off you.”

“Very generous of you,” Crowley replied. His smile looked rusty, too, but it was genuine, and rather nice, Adam thought. “I’m not sure if you can, Adam. I don’t think any of you lot can help me any more than I can help you. I’m no spell-weaver of any sort, and I don’t know the counters to any of your curses.”

“Oh, I’m not sure if they have specific counters,” Adam said. “Wensley, haven’t you told him this already?”

“Some of it,” Wensleydale bobbed his turtley head.

“We were experiments,” Pepper meowed, stretching. “Beelzebub wasn’t looking to gain anything by changing us, just testing their powers, so they never mentioned any way to reverse our own spells. It could be as arbitrary as hopping on one foot during a full moon, or as specific as finding a key from the furthest reach of the remotest corner of the planet and matching it to a door on the opposite end of the world. We just don’t know.”

“That’s…that’s really depressing,” Crowley said, laying his hands in his lap. Pepper slunk forward and curled up in it, and seemingly unaware he was doing it, Crowley began to pet her as Pepper purred. Adam had seen that tactic performed many times on other scared, hopeless kidnapping cases Beelzebub left here.

“At least we’re not Hastur and Ligur,” Brian said, still perched on Wensleydale’s shell. “Beelzebub bosses them around all day, even when they’re guarding the moat.”

“Oh, they’re still here, are they?” Adam said. “Typical. How long have they been crocodiles this time?”

“At least as long as I’ve been here,” Crowley said, scritching behind Pepper’s ears. “They make getting into the castle to do any kind of snooping a chore. Easier for me during the day, you know, but. Well.”

“He sleeps all day, is what he means,” Pepper sighed, kneading at Crowley’s skirts.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Crowley snorted, giving Pepper one final scratch and offloading her from his lap. “It’s been harder to adjust to being a swan when I’m a human again at night.” Crowley glanced up, and Adam followed his eyeline to the waning moon in the sky. “Most nights. Easier just to sleep through it until I’m human again.”

“Crowley!” the sharp tones of Beelzebub barked from the trees, and with a series of panicked sounds, the Them scattered, dragging Adam with them. His injured wing jostled, but it didn’t hurt much, really; the hunted look on Crowley’s face was very distracting, as was the approach of their mutual transmogrifier. Adam hadn’t prepared yet to face Beelzebub himself, so he stowed his grunts of pain when he didn’t get his wing folded away quite as carefully as he would have liked before Wensleydale planted himself like an unsuspecting pond rock in front of them all to hide behind.

“Beelzebub,” Crowley replied, with much the same air as a person observing a hairball in their porridge as Beelzebub dragged themself through the undergrowth to finally stand on the shore. “Haven’t given up yet, I see.”

“Not much else going on at the moment, I’m afraid,” Beelzebub said, removing twigs from their hair and dusting off their ragged lapels. “I’ve come to szzeek your hand and kingdom.”

“Every night we do this,” Crowley said, folding his arms, setting his long curls to swinging. “And every night, I give you the same answer.”

“Go on, then,” Beelzebub said. Crowley seemed to grind his jaw, his fingers clenching on his arms.

“I’ll die first,” he spat.

“Well done, much less lackluster delivery this time around,” Beelzebub said, deadpan, and buffed their nails on their coat. “You know, one of these days, you’re going to say yeszz to me.”

“Give me one good reason!” Crowley hissed. Adam re-shifted his wing as Beelzebub smiled; the unpleasant twinge of fear did little for the coinciding twinge of pain from his brush with the arrow earlier.

“You will if you want that curse off you, for a start,” Beelzebub said, and began circling, small even steps. The Princess Crowley did his best to not have Beelzebub at his back without getting dizzy. “You know how this works by now. Unless I dispel it for you, it won’t come off without—”

“Without a vow of everlasting love, I know, I know,” Crowley griped.

“From your true love,” Beelzebub said, fluttering their dark lashes, and laughed, a cruel sound Adam had no wish to hear again. Beelzebub didn’t laugh often. Adam hadn’t realized they’d even known how until now; they were usually so practical and humorless. “And szzzeeing as how he’s not here…do some time management. I can wait as long as I like. You’re at my mercy. Either you marry me and I will lift the curse as soon as your father’s kingdom is mine by legal right, or you spend the rest of your life—”

“I know,” Crowley snapped. “I am aware. And I am telling you, it’s not happening, and I am not marrying you.”

Beelzebub stopped pacing, studying Crowley intently enough it made Adam himself uncomfortable. Then they shrugged.

“Looks like you need yet another day to think it over, I think,” Beelzebub said, and indicated the sky. Adam looked—the moon was setting, and fast. He looked back to Crowley, and then had to look around before he found him—he was walking into the lake. After a moment, a reddish glow of magic surrounded him, kicking up enough water to enclose him entirely in glittering light, and when it faded, what was left was a black swan, its head already tucked up under its wing. Beelzebub walked away chuckling to themself.

“Alright,” Adam said once Beelzebub was far enough away, looking back to his friends, “that was certainly something.”

Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale looked back at him sadly.

“Best get some sleep,” Pepper meowed, stretching. “He won’t come back off the lake until morning, if he plans on waking up at all before moonrise.”

“And your wing needs rest, actually,” Wensleydale added.

Sleep wouldn’t make the world make sense, but perhaps it would help Adam get over his wing somewhat, and he would need it if he was going to help the princess. It was so nice to have something interesting happening around here, for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the film, Princess Odette has three animal friends, Speed the turtle, Jean-Bob the frog, and Lt. Puffin, none of whom are actually magically transformed humans (though Jean-Bob thinks he is); I added in Pepper as a cat when I cast the Them as these animal friends, and also it made more narrative sense to me for Beelzebub to have victims of their attempts at transforming people into animals hanging around, so that's the change I decided to go with. Also, yes, Hastur and Ligur are the moat crocodiles, and they will be coming up in future chapters. Hope this makes sense!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for swiolence (swan violence) (as in violence by a swan, not violence against a swan, though it is attempted), a praying mantis doing as praying mantises do, and a great deal of Winnie the Pooh-style think-think-thinking. What fun!

“I’ve got it,” Adam said, bright and early the next morning. Wensleydale, munching on pondweed, blinked at him. Brian, on Wensleydale’s shell and amusing himself by trying to catch a dragonfly, paused. Pepper was napping, and out on the lake, it looked like Crowley was still asleep and drifting in the water.

“Got what?” Brian asked.

“How we’re going to help Crowley,” Adam replied. “But first, we need to wake him up and tell him the plan.”

“I’ll get him,” Brian said, and hopped impressively far from Wensleydale’s back into the water of the lake. After a few moments, there was a loud honking screech out on the lake, and a flurry of black feathers, and after another minute or two, Adam grinned as best he could with a beak to see the black swan figure approaching.

“Alright, what,” Crowley grumped, waddling onshore and ruffling his feathers to dislodge Brian. In Adam’s experience, waterfowl tended to walk awkwardly anyway, but Crowley seemed to have an especially difficult time on webbed feet, listing this way and that and sometimes nearly overbalancing. His long neck bobbed and weaved as he found a comfortable standing position and then settled.

“I know how we’re going to get you out of here and break your curse,” Adam informed him. “All it takes is a vow from your true love, right?”

“Right,” Crowley said, cautious and definitely still grumpy.

“Great. Then we just have to fly to wherever they are, lure them to the lake, you’ll change back into a princess, and then boom—happily ever after,” Adam beamed.

There was not a cacophony of praise and applause like he’d sort of expected.

“That plan has so many holes,” Pepper said, and Adam squawked, flinching, as Pepper stepped by him to join the conversation, silent as a predator. Well, she actually was a predator, come to think of it. Adam smoothed down his ruffled feathers and regained his composure.

“Quite a few,” Crowley grumbled. “The biggest two of which are: first, I have to be on the lake when the moon hits it to change back, it’s not just being on the lake in general, so we’d have to get the timing right. And two, how can I find where he is if I don’t even know where I am?”

“Right,” Adam said, thinking. “I don’t know how to solve the second one, but maybe if we find him and then lead him on for a bit and stall until moonrise, that’ll work.”

“What if he’s on another continent, or so far away it’ll take days to get back here?” Crowley asked, hints of frustration in his voice that Adam read more as coming from a place of despair than any actual fault in Adam himself. He had been cooped up for several months, after all.

“We need a map,” Brian said.

“Beelzebub might have one, actually,” Wensleydale said, slowly turning to stare at the dilapidated castle ruin overlooking the lake.

“How are we going to get in there and look around without them knowing, though?” Crowley asked. Adam was pleased to find that Crowley sounded less dejected and more intrigued.

“Oh, Beelzebub doesn’t live here,” Adam snorted. “It’s just a secret laboratory or something for them.”

“How do you know that?” Pepper asked, scowling.

“I followed them once,” Adam replied, puffing out his chest proudly. “They live in a cottage nearby. As far as I can tell, they just come here to taunt people they’ve kidnapped.”

“You’re telling me the castle’s been undefended every day this summer?” Crowley said, and then said a word Adam hadn’t heard very often but knew not to repeat in polite company (according to his mother, anyway). “What are we waiting for? Let’s get in there and search!”

“What if it’s in a book or something?” Brian asked. “You might need someone smaller who can turn pages. I’m coming, too.”

“And you’ll need someone who can be quiet and sneak,” Pepper said, swishing her tail. “I’ll go, as well.”

“You lot go, I’ll stand guard from here, actually,” Wensleydale said. Adam was loath to leave anyone behind, but conceded that perhaps bringing a turtle into a stealth mission, and a heavy turtle at that, wasn’t the brightest decision.

“If you see anyone coming—Beelzebub or Hastur and Ligur or _anyone_ —scream as loud as you can,” Adam instructed. Wensleydale dipped his leathery head. “I’ll take Brian, and we’ll do a sweep around the perimeter first, since I’m smaller and won’t be noticed as much. Crowley and Pepper, you wait until I give the signal.”

“Right,” Crowley said, flexing his wings, and Pepper jumped onto his back. Crowley hissed. “Watch the claws, please.”

Adam took off, Brian on his back, and began making a circle around the widest tower of the crumbling castle.

“Can turtles scream?” Brian asked loudly over the rushing wind.

“Well, it’s not like he’s a normal turtle, is he?” Adam said loudly back.

The second-tallest tower of the castle seemed more like a dungeon, the bottom third or so filled with water and any other floors rotted away. The main interior of the castle had a caved-in roof and a crumbling fountain. The tallest spire, however, yielded results—a small study, crammed with books, and on the wall, conveniently enough, was a map—and a quick look over it suggested it was a relevant map, as well. Beelzebub was most likely clever enough to plant a false map, if they wanted, but Adam also thought Beelzebub was slightly too clever and thought they were smarter than everyone else around them, and so would have thought nothing of leaving a map and extra books lying around, convinced none of their victims would ever think to look around for something like that. If they made it in there without being noticed, Adam would have to come back to see if Beelzebub had left any spellbooks.

Adam wheeled over the lake and squawked, and in no time at all Crowley and Pepper were in the air as well, Pepper latching around Crowley’s neck and hanging on for dear life as Crowley beat his wings. He seemed to be a little shaky in the air, but nodded at Adam as he approached.

“Found one?” Crowley said.

“In the upper chamber,” Adam confirmed. “Window’s locked, so we’re going to have to infiltrate the castle to get up in there.”

Crowley’s odd yellow eyes gleamed. “Finally, some action around here.”

“We’ll enter through the ruin below and take the stairs,” Adam said, scanning the terrain. “Should be in and out in a jiffy.”

“Let’s go,” Crowley said, and dived towards the main complex of the castle, Pepper giving a short screech as he did so. Adam followed up. This was already more fun than Adam had ever had at the lake.

.

Hastur and Ligur were very much enjoying their day off. Once in a while Beelzebub gave in to their pleading and groveling and allowed them a short amount of time off—never too long, maybe twelve hours or so at a time—to stretch their human legs and share a very old smoke and pass a bottle of something that might’ve been paint stripper at this point back and forth. Currently, they were holed up at the bottom of the stairwell of the tallest tower, reflecting on the virtues of a simple life guarding a moat for a mad wizard instead of rotting away in a jail serving some well-deserved life sentence. Or perhaps they were thinking nothing of the sort; it was their day off, after all.

“Do you hear summat?” Ligur asked out of the blue, disrupting their normal routine of not talking. His voice was rusty and disused. Hastur cocked his ear and listened.

“Yeah,” he said around the smoke in his mouth. “Yeah, I think I—”

It was at that moment that the swan appeared.

There were some other animals present, as well, but Hastur and Ligur were a bit more preoccupied with the giant sodding _swan_ , which, as soon as it saw them, reared back, beating its wings and honking. Something dark and fast flew over Hastur’s head as he stood up, and something dark and fast scurried between Ligur’s legs when he followed suit, but both were inconsequential, in light of the dark and enormous bird now mantling its wings and making a menacing, low hissing sound.

“It’s just a swan,” Hastur said, more bravely than he felt. “Go on, Ligur, shoo it out.”

“You shoo it out, I’m not going near it,” Ligur snorted. “It’s the…wot’s-it-called. Princess.”

“I know it’s the Princess,” Hastur argued, “but right now it’s a bloody great swan and it’s _hissing_.”

The hissing grew in volume as the swan princess beat its wings, coming at Hastur and Ligur from such an angle and at such a speed they felt it best if they booked it, abandoning the stairs and crowding into the open-air great hall. Ligur picked up a rotted board to defend himself with as the swan advanced. Hastur grabbed a rusty length of metal.

The swan wasn’t doing much beyond the hissing and fluttering its wings to make itself look bigger, but every time Hastur or Ligur made a sudden move, its volume and range of motion increased, beak snapping.

“We can’t hurt it,” Ligur said in a low voice. “Boss won’t like it if we hurt their princess.”

“If it hurts us first, might not be so bad,” Hastur replied, and swung his metal club at the swan. The swan twisted its head out of the way and honked, for a moment looking startled. “Or that’s what we tell the boss, anyway.”

“You really want to test that?” Ligur snapped, kicking at Hastur’s ankle. “And have the boss turn us back into lizards?”

“You were a lizard,” Hastur retorted. “I was a toad.”

The swan princess took advantage of that moment to dart in and bite Hastur’s ankle, right where Ligur had just kicked, and Hastur howled, bouncing on his foot and rubbing the welt on the other with his hands.

There was some sort of whistle from the stairwell, and then a flurry of feathers and activity that bowled Hastur over and had Ligur yelping and covering his face, certain the swan was coming for them at last; when the commotion died down, Hastur put his arms down from over his head, and Ligur uncovered his face, and they both blinked at the empty room they found themselves in.

“What d’you suppose that was about?” Hastur asked. Ligur plucked a dark feather from the air and inspected it, then shrugged.

“Not our problem.”

Had they been paying attention, they likely would have heard the cheers and laughter from the far shore of the lake, but it was Hastur and Ligur’s day off, and they still had a few fingers of questionable liquid left in their bottle to share.

.

Aziraphale lived in the library now.

This was not an exaggeration. Ever since…well, at the beginning of summer, Aziraphale had only eaten if meals were brought to the library and slept upon the old armchairs until someone had the thought to move a couch in there while he was reading. At first, it had been grief, and shock, and whatever else a person was supposed to feel when a pillar of his life had been abruptly ripped out so soon after knocking it askew himself. When he could comprehend sentences again rather than just flipping aimlessly through books of astronomy and botany and going to pieces, Aziraphale had thrown himself full-bore into research on the Great Beast.

There wasn’t much to go on; both King Shadwell and Captain Bottle had died before giving much more description, to say nothing of the rest of the unfortunate guard who had also not made it. The injuries King Shadwell had sustained weren’t distinctive. It could have been a beast with great claws and teeth and fiery breath, or a large person wielding a knife and a flamethrower; there was little difference, to Aziraphale’s unpracticed eye. Magic was not a well-known art, certainly not to a properly brought up young ruler-to-be. But the more Aziraphale studied and dug through not just tomes in the castle library, but sought out books from more esoteric sources, the more Aziraphale felt he was onto something.

 _It’s not what it seems_. Those had been among King Shadwell’s final words, the only clue left. Aziraphale had felt for months now that the answer was staring him in the face, just waiting for him to notice it. He had more than a passing knowledge of the differing types of magic now, and were he so inclined, he thought he might’ve been able to try a basic spell on his own just from memory. But a few months’ passing knowledge was nothing compared to the work of a very powerful wizard, which was Aziraphale’s theory. There were no such entities of that sort in all of Aziraphale’s kingdom, or at least none by reputation. Aziraphale had even asked Anathema to look into it, as discreetly as she knew how; Anathema practiced some forms of magic, though she hardly advertised it.

If it wasn’t a wizard of some sort from Aziraphale’s kingdom, perhaps it was someone from Crowley’s? Aziraphale had come to that conclusion some weeks ago, and had written to King Shadwell’s steward, but it was likely his letter had fallen to the wayside, what with the poor man being swamped in unexpectedly running a kingdom robbed of both sitting monarch and heir. If Aziraphale were in Madam Tracy’s position, it would have been his duty to offer condolences and support, but only being the Crown Prince had its advantages: namely, having the prerogative to leave governance and diplomacy to his mother still and go on wild goose chases for long-lost childhood sweethearts—erm—nuisances.

 _It’s not what it seems._ What the devil did King Shadwell mean?

Aziraphale, feeling the migraine behind his eye starting to take shape if he kept staring at his own neat handwriting, put down his notes and drank some of the stone-cold tea he had forgotten about. He was getting nowhere with this. He stood, stretching his legs, his arms, his ribs. Perhaps a turn about the grounds, to refresh himself.

As often happened when Aziraphale began a mindless activity that left his hands free, his fingers strayed to his breast pocket, where he kept the golden snake-adorned locket that once belonged to Crowley. He’d had the clasp repaired some time ago, but beyond tucking it into his pocket, he hadn’t been able to bear seeing it, not even to open it and study the tiny eye portraits within. The old arguments from before, when life seemed simpler, began to revive themselves: why was Aziraphale trying so hard when he wasn’t certain if he really loved Crowley? Was it love, or was it obsession? Some unique form of Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps?

 _Does it really matter?_ Aziraphale asked himself, his fist locked over the lump in his breast pocket. Crowley was alive, that much he knew (and refused to think otherwise), and if Crowley was alive and had not returned, then he must’ve been prevented from returning, which meant he was suffering somehow. A tiny, tiny part of Aziraphale said that _if_ Crowley wasn’t dead, perhaps he’d run away and become a pirate after all, and maybe it would be better if Aziraphale left him to it.

 _It’s not what it seems_. That didn’t seem like the warning of a man who had just lost his child to a life of piracy. And Crowley could never have left his kingdom in the lurch on purpose; he loved it too much.

_It’s not what it seems. It’s not what it seems._

Aziraphale’s feet took him to the gardens, past the tree that held an old treehouse, to the glasshouses that Aziraphale knew were no equal for the great conservatory Crowley often spoke of back at his own kingdom but were “decent enough”, by the Princess’ admission. They were quiet for now, and as Aziraphale walked amongst the more exotic plants and breathed in the delicately-scented humid air, he noticed something—odd.

He leaned in carefully and inspected what had caught his eye. It seemed to be…some kind of leaf? No, he realized, it was an insect that resembled a leaf. Aziraphale leaned back, but didn’t take his eyes off it. It was a strange creature, with a triangular head and bulbous eyes and large pincer-like arms. It didn’t move a muscle.

A common fly meandered past, and when it flew too close—snap! The strange leaf-like insect struck, capturing the fly in its large pincers and beginning to devour it.

Aziraphale blinked. An insect that resembled a leaf…but wasn’t. A creature that appeared harmless, until it was too late.

_It’s not what it seems._

Aziraphale staggered when the connection finally struck him like a thunderbolt.

Of course—of course! He was so foolish—it wasn’t what it seemed because the Great Beast was camouflaged to look like something else!

It wasn’t much, but it was more of a lead than Aziraphale had had all summer, and he raced back to his library to tear through his notes. Perhaps there was some precedent for magical shape-shifting, or a creature that had such abilities.

Two hours later saw him shaking Newt awake from a nap, bright-eyed and manic.

“Wake up, dear boy,” Aziraphale chirped. “We’re going hunting.”

“Hunting?” Newt stared at him blearily. “You don’t hunt.”

“Today I do,” Aziraphale said. “Ten minutes and we’re leaving, Newton. If you’re not there, I’ll go by myself. We’re going to find it, we’re going to find the Great Beast.”

What Newt thought of that was writ large across his face, but Aziraphale was much too euphoric to pay any mind. He intercepted Madam Tracy on his way to the stables, kissing her on the cheek.

“Oh, hello!” she smiled. “Where are you off to, then? Been a while since I’ve seen you so chipper.”

“I’m off to find the Great Beast,” Aziraphale replied.

“I’m sure you will, love,” Tracy said, and if Aziraphale were in any frame of mind to notice, he would most certainly have discerned the pitying edge to her smile. “Just be sure to be back in time for the ball.”

Aziraphale’s train of thought screeched to a halt and piled up.

“The ball?” he repeated blankly.

Madam Tracy frowned at him. “ _The_ ball? The ball I’ve been planning all summer, the ball I have definitely mentioned to you more than once or twice, the ball I have invited most, if not all, of the surrounding dignitaries to attend? That ball?”

“Oh.” From the wreckage of his memories, Aziraphale did dimly recall talk of such an occasion passing over his head. “Well—Mother, my deepest apologies, but surely you understand this search—”

Tracy’s eyes got very wide and shiny and her lip wibbled.

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“Perhaps I can just make a cursory sweep of the area, and be back in time for the ball,” he sighed. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow night,” Tracy reminded him, her smile brightening immeasurably. “Thank you, darling, I promise it’ll be ever so much fun.”

“They always are,” Aziraphale said around a forced smile. Perhaps it was just as well; two hours was hardly enough time to plan a long hunting trip, and ten minutes was most definitely not enough time to give Newt notice of it. But a simple overnight trip looking for things out of the ordinary—that would more than do.

“Hold on for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured to the great open sky, just passing into late afternoon. Whether he was in love with Crowley or just needed him in an unhealthy fashion was irrelevant. If Crowley wasn’t here, or at least happy and safe and free elsewhere, then he deserved to be, and Aziraphale was the only creature in the world right now who was either too determined or too foolish to stop looking for him. “Just a little while longer. I promise.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for attempted swan harm part 2, but don't worry, no waterfowl were harmed in the making of this chapter. Also some anxiety-adjacent symptoms related to Crowley running (flying?) for his life, and a very angry Aziraphale that resolves itself nicely.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Crowley cackled. “You should have seen their faces!”

“Quick thinking, staying behind like that,” Pepper remarked. “Very brave of you.”

“I’m not exactly a helpless princess in need of rescue, am I?” Crowley smirked, preening himself and strutting.

“Don’t know that you would have fit up that spiral staircase anyway,” Brian commented from where he was weighing down one corner of the map. “Go on, let’s read this and figure out how to get you home.”

“Right,” Crowley said, waddling over. Adam was already inspecting it closely.

“This is us, I think,” Adam said, pointing out a lake in the depths of a forest on the map.

“Aziraphale’s kingdom is there,” Crowley said, pointing with a wing. “Blimey. We’re awfully close. How has no one found this place yet?”

“Well, Beelzebub’s careful,” Adam replied. “They’ve got all sorts of enchantments and wards protecting this place, making sure lost travelers don’t stumble on it, making it take longer than it really should to travel here. ‘course, doesn’t mean they’re invincible; I’m pretty sure me coming and going every so often weakens them a bit. And if we’re showing your true love the way, then we’ll be able to lead him straight in, since we both have that spell thingy that tells us exactly how to get back. I think it’s got something to do with our curses and the wards interacting, since they’re cast by the same person.”

Crowley hummed, studying the map. “By my math, the castle isn’t far at all, maybe a few miles. We could leave right now and spend a bit of time looking for him and luring him out.” Crowley was pointedly not thinking about what he’d do once he had Aziraphale here, beyond the basics: transform back into a person, inform him of what was going on, and hope that he’d help.

In all this hullabaloo the past night and day, and in the swan-related depression of the last few months, Crowley hadn’t much let himself think about Aziraphale in any great detail. It hurt too much, for many reasons. But now that he had help, and maybe a plan for getting his life back to normal…the fact that it hinged on Aziraphale caring about him was, just a bit, the biggest slap in the face. Crowley had a feeling it was supposed to be.

“Crowley?”

Crowley shook himself out of the beginnings of a stupor and refocused on his young friends. “What?”

“Are you sure you want to do this, actually?” Wensleydale asked, tilting his leathery head. “It’s just, you seem a bit—”

“Nervous,” Pepper interjected.

Crowley fluffed his wings, as close to shrugging as he could get.

“Just ready to go,” he said roughly.

“I’ll go, too,” Adam said, stretching his wings. “You could probably use the help.”

Crowley opened his beak to protest, then closed it again. He was probably right,.

“Fine,” Crowley said. “It’s…late afternoon now, by my guess? We should go.”

“Good luck,” Brian ribbited, hopping off the map.

“Are you going to need this?” Pepper asked, nosing at the map.

“Can’t carry it, can I? Don’t have hands,” Crowley snorted.

“Yet,” Adam said cheerfully. “Away we go, Princess!”

With that, Adam shot into the air, and Crowley held back his swears as he took a running leap and followed, his large wings beating hard as he caught up.

Well, this was it. Crowley was finally doing something about his situation, instead of waiting to be rescued. He analyzed the position of the lake once he was high enough, then angled his wings and began flying for Aziraphale’s castle, Adam on his tail.

He just hoped…no. Cross that bridge when he got to it. He just had to get to Aziraphale first. They could sort out the rest later.

.

“Tell me again,” Newt panted, “why we’re doing this?”

“Certainly,” Aziraphale said as he and Newt walked deeper into the woods that surrounded part of Tracy’s kingdom. “It’s finally occurred to me what King Shadwell meant when he said ‘it’s not what it seems’. The Great Beast—it’s a creature in disguise, one that can appear as something benign, but is something else entirely.”

“So…like a shapeshifter?”

“Possibly,” Aziraphale said, holding up a branch for Newt to scoot under. “It’s clear whatever attacked and destroyed the carriage was very powerful, possibly magical. So we’re here to look for something that maybe seems like it belongs but doesn’t.”

“And…what if it’s not in the woods?” Newt asked.

“One must start somewhere,” Aziraphale replied. “They were attacked in these woods, so these woods are what we will check first.”

Newt, to his credit, was at least somewhat more experienced at wood navigation than Aziraphale; he kept marking the trail they took, and checking the position of the sun. But he did seem spooked, poor boy; Aziraphale noticed him following a dragonfly with his bow several times. Normally, Aziraphale would have told him to leave it be, but he didn’t want to rule anything out. Anything could be the Great Beast, anything—from a tiny insect to a large deer or maybe even something more unpleasant than that. Aziraphale was merely keeping his eyes open.

Apparently not open enough, because by the time the sun was beginning to dip down, Aziraphale realized that Newt was missing.

“Bother,” Aziraphale cursed. Then he heard a yelp, and the twang of a bowstring, and sighed. There he was, near enough. Aziraphale turned his attention back to the woods and kept looking.

The Great Beast was here somewhere. He would find it, no matter what.

.

“So, what’s he like? Your Aziraphale,” Adam asked as they flew. Crowley was getting the hang of it now; he hadn’t been sure if he would be able to fly such a long distance, having never done it before, but the swan’s body was powerful and knew what to do better than Crowley himself did, so he let it lead.

“He’s a pain in the neck,” Crowley replied, almost automatically. “He’s stubborn and he’s pedantic and he’s—he’s a right git.”

“Right,” Adam said. “So you like him, then.”

“I’m so bloody in love with him I don’t know what to do with myself,” Crowley said, with more honesty than he meant to. It was an odd sensation, to feel choked up with so long a neck. “Since we were kids, honestly.”

“You’ve known each other a long time,” Adam said. “Did you always know you wanted to marry him?”

“Well—well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Crowley grimaced, or did the best he could with a beak.

“Why? Is he a commoner?”

“Worse,” Crowley huffed. “He’s a prince.”

“Oh.”

“We’ve been—we were actually engaged, you know. Since we were babies. But our guardians wanted us to…y’know. Fall in love, or something. Strengthen the attachment between us so it would work out for our kingdoms.” Crowley beat his wings and sighed. “Bit hard to know sometimes if you really love someone when you’re forced together.”

“But you do,” Adam said. “You know.”

Crowley didn’t say anything. Because if he was being honest, he did know. He’d known for a long time that what he felt for Aziraphale was real. It wasn’t like he and Aziraphale were sheltered; they had both met other people, had both formed attachments with other people. Crowley knew as certain as the sunrise that the only face he wanted to see every morning next to his own was Aziraphale’s. But if Aziraphale wasn’t sure, then Crowley had been intending to…do something. Wait, probably. Would wait forever, if he hadn’t been stuffed into this swan form and kidnapped.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, after far too long. “Yeah, I know.” He shook his head to clear it. “Come on. We’ve got a ways to go before we get anywhere close.”

The sun was starting to dip towards evening before they saw any sign of another living creature in the sea of green below.

“We ought to keep an eye out for hunters,” Crowley said. “It’s about that time of year.”

“Relax,” Adam smiled. “I can smell danger a mile off.”

From somewhere below, an arrow hurtled into the blue, and both Crowley and Adam pulled up short, Adam squawking harshly and his injured wing fluttering.

“A mile off, right,” Crowley snorted, peering down into the trees. There were hunters down there, alright, he could hear one crashing through undergrowth. And he could see another one—another one with cloud-fluff hair, and wide shoulders, and—and—

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed, and would have dived into the trees right that second if Adam hadn’t chosen that moment to fly into his face. “Adam! Adam, he’s here, he’s right there—”

“Wait, hold on, remember the plan, Crowley,” Adam protested, and Crowley heard him, he did, but he was also looking around Adam and at the stocky figure below. “Crowley—Crowley, wait, he won’t recognize you, what if he has a bow?”

“He won’t, he’s rubbish with a bow, prefers swords,” Crowley said. “He’s here, I have to—”

“Crowley!” Adam cried as Crowley beat his wings and began to dive into the trees, his thoughts entirely centered on Aziraphale, his heart singing in his breast.

_Aziraphale, I’m here, I’m coming—_

.

Aziraphale’s worry about Newt and his concentration on keeping his awareness open entirely left him when he saw the dark shape flitting through the trees. He squinted, and then it registered—it was a black swan, flying towards him.

A black swan? Were those native to this area?

No, Aziraphale didn’t think they were. It was unusual. It was _different_.

An unfamiliar snarl began to take shape on his face as he reinforced his grip on his bow and reached for an arrow.

“Come on, you,” he murmured, watching the dark winged shape fly closer. “Come on…come on…”

.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed, delirious with joy, right up until the moment Aziraphale’s soft familiar face turned towards him with an unfamiliar growl, the business end of an arrow staring him in the beak. He pulled up short, a startled honk leaving him before he could help it.

“This one is for Crowley, Great Beast,” Aziraphale thundered, and loosed the arrow.

Luckily for them all, Adam was small and fast, and he forced Crowley out of the way by flying into him at top speed.

“Up, up!” Adam panted, and Crowley listened, fear like a vise closing around his heart. “I thought you said he was rubbish with a bow!”

“He was, last I checked!” Crowley yelped as another arrow narrowly missed him. “He’s too close, we have to—”

“But he’s chasing, that’s good,” Adam pointed out. “If we go too fast, we’ll lose him.”

“He’s faster than he looks,” Crowley said grimly. “Cleverer, too.”

“Well,” Adam said, “well—fly into the sun, that should buy us a little time. Blind him a bit.”

“Right, right,” Crowley panted, and followed Adam’s lead. He wasn’t counting on leading an aggressive Aziraphale. If anything, Crowley’s fantasies of this moment were more like playing coy rather than prey—leading Aziraphale in a more magical, romantic sense, rather than flying for his life.

One thing Crowley and Adam had both forgotten, which an arrow grazing Crowley’s tailfeathers reminded them—the sun was setting.

“Fly,” Adam said, “just—just fly, fly fast, fly hard. I’ll try to distract him along the way, make sure he’s still headed in the right direction.”

“Be careful,” Crowley instructed, then did as bidden.

It was the hardest Crowley had ever pushed himself before in any form, his breath coming in short bursts, his wings beating frantic and loud. As he flew, the sun set, and only Crowley’s internal sense of where the lake was kept him on-course. He knew Aziraphale was keeping up, just from the occasional squawks from Adam as he dived at Aziraphale’s head and threw off his aim with the bow. Adam was smaller and harder to hit than Crowley, and he knew how to use that to his advantage. Even if Aziraphale was somehow now a master archer, he still had to contend with the terrain, and the darkness, and keeping Crowley in sight. It wouldn’t have been smart to waste an arrow on Adam, and if there was one thing Crowley knew Aziraphale was, it was smart.

Crowley burst from the tree line beyond the lake just as an arrow whizzed by. Panic overtook him, had probably overtaken him for a while, until Adam bumped into him in mid-air, calling his name.

“What are you doing? The lake’s down there, you just have to land and change and then—”

“I—I don’t think I can do this,” Crowley panted. His wings were starting to feel leaden even as his heart raced. “The way he’s acting—if I go down there, he’ll kill me, I don’t think I can—”

“If you don’t, you’ve lost your chance for life,” Adam urged. “I’ll keep distracting him, but you have to go, Princess.”

Someone help him, but Adam was right. Crowley’s throat spasmed.

“Okay. Okay.” Crowley gulped, then gulped a couple more times, and then angled for the lake, swooping right for where the reflection of the rising crescent moon would hit the surface. He tucked his wings, looking expectantly at the sky, and honked, dismayed, at the sudden patch of clouds rolling across the sky and obscuring the moon. At this rate, the moonlight wouldn’t reach him until it was too late. The creak of a bowstring had Crowley whipping his head towards the shore, where Aziraphale stood, his gentle face hard and furious. Crowley’s heart stopped.

Before the arrow could be loosed, a dark blur divebombed Aziraphale’s head and Aziraphale cried out, the arrow hissing into the water too close to Crowley for comfort. Aziraphale dropped the bow, fending off the attacking puffin with both hands, Adam screeching loudly and flapping his wings in Aziraphale’s face. Crowley flexed his wings, watching the clouds, ready to take off again at a moment’s notice should Aziraphale regain his bow, and silently begged the wind to blow just a little harder as Adam utilized his full power in being an utter nuisance.

Finally, the clouds finished their pass across the moon. Crowley felt the faint moonbeams across his feathers, warm as sunlight as the magic took hold. He had never been so relieved to feel the pull-stretch of changing forms and hear the splash of displaced water, and as the water dropped away, Crowley’s long curls settling against his back, Aziraphale stopped trying to fight Adam, who took his chance to wing away, and stared in Crowley’s direction instead.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale croaked. Crowley’s heart pounded for an entirely different reason. He crooked a smile at him, brushing some hair away from his face.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said gently. There wasn’t much time to be nervous or unsure, not after the long months of unwilling separation. Even if it wasn’t exactly in the way Crowley wanted, he could tell from Aziraphale’s dumbstruck expression that he’d missed him, at least. Crowley opened up his arms as Aziraphale took a few unsteady steps towards him, and the motion seemed to solidify something in his angel, because Aziraphale had never run at him like that before, his strong arms catching Crowley and lifting him up out of the water entirely, swinging him around. Crowley held on for dear life and laughed.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said tearfully once he was done hefting Crowley about like a too-lively dance, “I—I’m so sorry, I’m sorry for everything, I knew you weren’t dead, I _knew_ it—”

“Right as rain, that’s me,” Crowley said, and went to say something else, but the crushing kiss being laid on him drove breath, thought, and worry out of him in one fell swoop. This was incredible. He never thought he’d get another chance, not another proper chance. Aziraphale’s hands pressed him close, one on the small of his back and the other in his hair, and Crowley held onto his shoulders and kissed him back, as hard and thoroughly as he could. It felt so long overdue. He could have stood there kissing Aziraphale until the end of time (though, of course, the moon setting would take care of that soon enough, but he wasn’t thinking about that right now, he was thinking about wonderful large arms and soft lips and strong shoulders under his hands—). Capital activity, this.

“I knew you’d come for me,” Crowley murmured in the space between their lips when they inevitably had to pull back to breathe.

“More faith than I deserve,” Aziraphale breathed, and kissed him again. “I—I have so much to say—”

“I know,” Crowley sighed. “I wish we had more time, but—”

“Your father,” Aziraphale said, pulling back, and Crowley winced. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry—”

“I know,” Crowley repeated. “I know.”

“—and I never said sorry for what I said before you left—”

“I _know_ ,” Crowley interrupted more firmly, taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands and making Aziraphale look him in the eyes. Immediately Aziraphale’s wide eyes started welling up, and Crowley sighed again, smiling wryly and wiping away tears with his thumbs. “Trust me, I know it all. I promise. I forgive you.”

(Well, if Crowley hadn’t known before, he certainly knew now; did people kiss their former fiancés whom they’d sort of jilted publicly like that if they weren’t sorry about it?)

“Come home with me,” Aziraphale said, leaning into Crowley’s hands. “We can leave now, it’s not been night for too long yet—”

“I can’t,” Crowley shook his head and began to lead Aziraphale back to the shore; his dress was soaked to the knees now and he would rather be dry sooner rather than late. “I can’t leave. And you can’t stay.”

“Can’t stay?” Aziraphale frowned, interlocking his fingers with Crowley’s. “Can’t—why not? What’s going on?”

“Crowley!” Beelzebub called from the direction of the ruins. Crowley flinched, but Aziraphale’s grip was too firm to pull out of.

“Who is that?” Aziraphale asked sharply, some of that foreign hard anger creeping back into his face.

“They’re keeping me here, I’m under a spell, I—there’s a lot to explain,” Crowley said, and began pulling Aziraphale by the hand towards the tree line. “Once the moon sets I’ll be a bloody great swan again. I have to be on the lake when it rises to change back.”

“Is there—surely there’s a way to break it,” Aziraphale protested, digging in his heels. Crowley yelped as he got pulled back into Aziraphale’s chest by the hands neither of them seemed capable of unjoining.

“Well, yeah, but it’s some spelly mumbo-jumbo,” Crowley grimaced. “If you want to help break it, you have to make a—a vow, I think.”

“Done,” Aziraphale said immediately. Crowley huffed a laugh and did a lot of high-intensity blinking as his own eyes began to sting and tear up.

“A vow of…of everlasting love,” he clarified. “A real one.”

“I make it,” Aziraphale said, reaching for Crowley’s other hand and cradling both of them in both of his. “It’s…I should have done it so long ago, I’m so sorry—”

“You have to prove it to the world somehow, I’m not solid on the details,” Crowley said, trying to talk fast but also wanting to hear Aziraphale talk more about his feelings, because they were so close to what he’d wanted to hear for so long—

“Crowley!” Beelzebub barked. They sounded closer.

“The ball,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley frowned at him. “Ball?”

“Mother’s throwing one of her ridiculous balls tomorrow,” Aziraphale said urgently, his fingers tightening on Crowley’s. “All sorts of people are invited, possibly the entire continent. Come to the palace tomorrow night, it isn’t too far from here. I’ll prove it to them all, I’ll—I’ll pledge myself to you properly, like I should have done before all this mess, I promise.”

“Angel,” Crowley breathed. He could have melted, in that moment. It could work. That was his clever angel, the problem-solver. Beelzebub shouted his name again, and Crowley winced. “Please, just go, they’re too powerful to fight unprepared.”

Aziraphale was immovable, his impossible eyes wide, searching Crowley’s for something. “Promise me you’ll come? Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night, I swear it,” Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale let him go; as he did, Crowley realized there was something in his palm that hadn’t been there before Aziraphale took his hand. As Aziraphale hustled for the trees, Crowley looked at what he was now holding, and almost dropped it—it was the snake locket, its clasp fixed from where Crowley had broken it trying to leave behind a clue when he was first taken, warm from their combined body heat. Crowley looked up with mute surprise and adoration as Aziraphale paused at the tree line and flashed a smile.

“I’ll see you soon,” Aziraphale promised, and slipped into the woods. Crowley watched him go, then whirled around, hissing, as Beelzebub finally made it to the shore.

“I know you heard me calling, Princessz,” Beelzebub scowled, and Crowley scowled back, hiding his hands in the folds of his skirt. “Thought I heard voiceszz.”

“I’m talking to myself,” Crowley snapped. “Bored out of my skull here.”

“There’s an easy fix,” Beelzebub said, and cocked their head. “You wouldn’t know who this belongs to, would you?” They took Aziraphale’s bow out from behind their back. Crowley fought to keep a neutral expression.

“No idea. Why, hunter problem in the woods now?”

“Or a princzzzeling problem,” Beelzebub said, and tossed the bow aside, where it tumbled into the lake. “What do you have there?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said. Beelzebub advanced.

“Then show me your hands.” Crowley spread his empty hand. Beelzebub snorted. “Okay. Now the other one.”

Crowley worked his jaw. Beelzebub grinned. They stopped in front of him, then their hand lashed out and gripped Crowley’s wrist with inhuman strength, holding it up and prying back his fingers. Crowley attempted to grab the locket with his other hand, but Beelzebub beat him to it, flinging his hand back to him and striding away a few steps to admire the locket, dangling from their fingers.

“Going to the ball, hmm?” Beelzebub said quietly as the locket caught the moonlight. “Finally convinced that princzeling to commit, did you?”

“None of your business,” Crowley snarled.

“Oh, it is, a bit,” Beelzebub grinned. They toyed with the locket, swinging it around their finger. “Your business is my businesszzz.”

“It’s not, I never agreed to marry you, and I won’t,” Crowley hissed. “I’m leaving tomorrow and I’m marrying Aziraphale and if you want to stop me, you’re going to have to kill me.”

“I don’t have to,” Beelzebub replied, arching an eyebrow. “Would be a terrible waste of resources when you can ruin it for me all on your own.”

“He loves me,” Crowley said, though old doubts in his head whispered that Aziraphale hadn’t actually said the words…what if it didn’t work, even after he worked so hard to get back to Aziraphale? No, he thought, shoving those voices away, it would work. It had to. “He’s going to make the vow. Your stupid spell is toast.”

“You’re forgetting a very important little detail,” Beelzebub said, and pointed at the sliver of moon high in the sky. “No moon tomorrow night, Princesszzz.”

Crowley felt a cold flush of horror in his stomach. No moon…that meant…

“Can’t make a vow of everlasting love to a swan, can you?” Beelzebub beamed, exposing eyeteeth. “Would be downright barmy of him, even if he did recognizzzze you. Dear, oh, dear, what a predicament.”

Crowley sank to his knees and clenched his fingers into the fabric of his skirt, biting down so hard on the inside of his cheek to avoid crying that he tasted blood. Beelzebub’s loud cackle echoed across the lake and reverberated. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, thoughts racing. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be.

There had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is why dresses should ALWAYS have pockets, my dudes.
> 
> The film, in a stroke of surprising brilliance in trusting its audience, does not explicitly spell out "Odette can't go to the ball because she won't be able to transform on a night with no moon", but rather does a sinister sort of fade to black with Rothbart laughing evilly as Odette sobs, once Rothbart reminds her "Tomorrow night, there is...no...moon!" While I always enjoyed the emotional gut punch of that scene, and the reliance on audience members' own intelligence to fill in the blanks, trying to write it that way...it didn't quite feel right, for some reason. I guess I wanted more insight into Crowley's mind and a little bit more of Beelzebub gloating and playing to Crowley's insecurities, so I spelled it out in a bit more detail. I'm not sure if it works or not but I'm satisfied with how I handled it, anyway.
> 
> Incidentally, Beelzebub has been so much fun to write in this fic, very evil and clever and practical.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Quillyfied on tumblr, friendos!


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